I’m riding out the storm. That is the story of my life. Riding out one storm after another. Blown helpless across the sea, or planted ankle deep in mud dragging firewood. As sure as I know the sun will come out, sending rainbows through shimmering spiderwebs in my soggy garden, I can bank on the fact another storm is coming.
It’s been uphill all the way, one foot in front of the other. But, I can’t say it hasn’t been interesting. I’m grateful for all the gifts, the wonder, the love, the laughs.
My memories are all I’ve brought home from the trip. In eternity I imagine they will amount to some sea shells collected at the beach.
In the next thirty seconds, NO, that’s not going to happen. Later today, after lunch, NO.
What I’m asking myself to admit is, “OH Fuck, I don’t, in truth, exist. I could be gone at any given second.”
No, I have plans, that’ll have to wait.
Still, I have this feeling I’m trying to hide, from something that has already found me.
I forget that I’ve known this all along.
I learned the lesson so many many years ago. Sitting up all night, sketching self portraits, one after another until they litter the bedroom floor, none of them proving my existence.
It seems the only real thing in the room was the exit. Kicked under a pile of comic books with a bullet in very chamber.
But what’s the point of an exit when I’m already gone. When I was never here.
I will never know that I’ve left the room. I will not enjoy a feast of friends in the severed garden.
I believe it will be a solitary path, deaf and blind, returning to the stars.
No more lonely than a night at the kitchen table in the company of a blank sheet of paper.
I am not interested in vague spiritualism or the dissection of the universe into quarks and monads.
Instead I would like to spend my time raising a whiskey to some kind words for my fellow travelers.
While enjoying the satisfaction that I am, at least for the moment, one who rides storms.
It’s been uphill all the way, one foot in front of the other. But, I can’t say it hasn’t been interesting. I’m grateful for all the gifts, the wonder, the love, the laughs.
My memories are all I’ve brought home from the trip. In eternity I imagine they will amount to some sea shells collected at the beach.
In the next thirty seconds, NO, that’s not going to happen. Later today, after lunch, NO.
What I’m asking myself to admit is, “OH Fuck, I don’t, in truth, exist. I could be gone at any given second.”
No, I have plans, that’ll have to wait.
Still, I have this feeling I’m trying to hide, from something that has already found me.
I forget that I’ve known this all along.
I learned the lesson so many many years ago. Sitting up all night, sketching self portraits, one after another until they litter the bedroom floor, none of them proving my existence.
It seems the only real thing in the room was the exit. Kicked under a pile of comic books with a bullet in very chamber.
But what’s the point of an exit when I’m already gone. When I was never here.
I will never know that I’ve left the room. I will not enjoy a feast of friends in the severed garden.
I believe it will be a solitary path, deaf and blind, returning to the stars.
No more lonely than a night at the kitchen table in the company of a blank sheet of paper.
I am not interested in vague spiritualism or the dissection of the universe into quarks and monads.
Instead I would like to spend my time raising a whiskey to some kind words for my fellow travelers.
While enjoying the satisfaction that I am, at least for the moment, one who rides storms.
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