At any point in time, my death is imminent, since before conception, a universal case, such is all of our lives, yet we turn a blind eye until the imminent is present and made real, once we are mortified, ashamed by our own life, our ignorance of death,
In this life, I have made mistakes, many mistakes, so many that at times, I feel I can't go on, sometimes I find failure as unacceptable as the expectations my parents had of me, or I have of myself, as a poet, writer, artist, philosopher, my whole life is worthless.
Unless I can reach out to one other person to change the way they think, to shape their attitudes towards humanity, our place upon this earth, this planet of stardust, brought to life by one source, a miracle in space, oxygen gives us life, a magic element, along with the others, the right combination, to unlock the surprise hidden behind the door, like a birthday party.
To fail as a husband in a starter marriage, as an unwanted son, as a worthless boyfriend, as another deadbeat dad to unborn children, these are all relations that mean little to me but nonetheless bring me down into the spiral of my dysphoria, depression times seven, lucky but unlucky, in love and family.
If I fail with people, people know I am not one who pleases others, a people-person type, some people like people, it happens quite often, but that is just not me, my animosity towards people is great, but towards animals, the other animals, the non-human beings, not Homo sapiens, the rest of the species of mammals and other creatures on this planet, but especially cats for some goddamn reason, my tolerance for them is greater than for us, I must expect too much out of human beings, how they lack awareness and consideration, but hold these against me also as a failure, smart people are stupid.
I cannot imagine how many, in the past, I have disappointed, my father, my mother, my brother, and some friends, in this life, in this world, it cannot be helped but we create misery for others and ourselves, this is the key to pain, we all suffer some pain, but no one knows our pain, as each of us suffer as individuals, rarely altogether, as a group, as a tribe, as a community, unless devastation has entered our domain, turned our lives upside-down, as tornadoes, fires, floods, and other disasters destroy homes and cities, these disruptions, earthquakes, are beyond our control, but our actions, our words, our deeds all seem to be within our own control, but we are like nature, like the natural world, volatile in a flash.
But this is no excuse for some reason, justice will resolve the matter, or vengeance shall repay, we live to hurt others and be hurt by others, it is just that simple, no getting around it, to live is to get hurt.
As a sensitive child, this was not a lesson I would learn easily, and so I fell victim to taunting from bullies, my family and others, no solving this problem, this is the way people interact, pokes and jabs, punches, kicks, slaps, backhands, take all in good humor or become a hermit, an outsider to all.
Whether my summer birth as a crab, or Cancer, creates this temperament, I am unsure if stars and the constellations make any difference for personalities to grow up with others, the zodiac is not my guide to certainty, but I am uncertain as to what leads to truth, all appears suspect, doubts arise to question false arguments and statements, whether truth is a lie we all accept as real, like a grand illusion, a hallucination nobody can describe adequately enough to move the universe was Archimedes point.
What is spoken reveals the unspoken, tacit, hidden meaning to words, language speaks between lines, and even between lies, but truth is uncertain, like time for Augustine, truth is unlike knowledge, it is ineffable, but somehow it exists, at least, in court dramas in screenplays on TV, that mimic the real world, but to speak truthfully, is not to know the truth.
Or is it that simple, nothing hidden behind a screen unlike the Tao? That is a can of worms I won't try to open, hard enough to just sit, so to speak, in zazen.
Egrets have no regrets, but I do, why is that? My whole life is prison, to suffer in remorse, but why, for what reason? I know not, my regrets fill pages in journals I no longer write in because my wife read them, while we were then married, I naively let her, in return she held them against me, my actions were only words, to her these words were intentions, maybe I have not met the right person to trust, they would be made of fire and everything would burn.
Sometimes I want to die like others who suffer, but to return to life, this life or some other, without finding release from the wheel of being, does not seem worth my time, so I rule out my death until I find release, but this too may be myth, uncertainty and lies, what to believe in life, all appears fictional.
Perhaps this is reason enough to write about the machine called Spirit, as if fiction were truth, and truth was fictional, the dude will not abide, nor will philosophers, they think much too clearly to be deceived by truth, however this being autobiography in the form of fiction, so Oprah won't bust me, I ponder the machine as possibility of an alternative.
I do not believe death is good for those who can, but for those who cannot, death is most natural, but this may be a myth also along with truth, what am I to believe, the Roman Catholic dogma of my childhood?
The most difficult thing about being alive is staying positive, relaxed, calm, and ready for something to happen, not being too bothered by opinions, advice, unwarranted feedback, people often offer to youth, but as I age, I am set in my ways, learn to stay flexible like a tree in its youth, as my joints become stiff, as body, so the mind, my death is imminent, as darkness closes round my vision, my eyesight diminishes with time, the body breaks down fast, but slowly at midlife.
I never imagined I would live past thirty as a wild teenager, but next year, at fifty, I want to just let go.
Everyday my body struggles to figure out how to live in this world with pain and suffering, no one cares for complaints, we say, "I can't complain," but to find gratitude takes work, to offer peace, calm, equanimity, requires self-critique that is not critical but honest assessment to change what can be changed for a healthy viewpoint, a perspective beyond the difficulties life presents in abundance.
Long ago, I wanted to succeed like others, but then, I was not like others, I was myself, without apology.
In defense, my failure is entirely mine, anyone who sees me may look on happily that they are not like me, I am a character in a story without any storyteller, without a story told, I am an example of whom not to be like, don't be like him, be like MJ, Michael Jordan.
If ever I succeed, I do so without thought or plan for the future, retirement, a joke, living well as others, financially well-off, able to pay the rent, to afford groceries, pay off my student loans, travel with my girlfriend to visit my homeland, and the rest of the world, wherever the wind blows, places she wants to see, I dream my luck will change, at least, before I die.
Nobody who sees me would ever imagine these are the deepest thoughts hidden behind the veil, the facade, the visage, the illusion of thought, the deception my face may present to the world, happy, smiling, thoughtful, master of my own mind, body, spirit, and soul, in touch with God within, my sense of wellbeing, of equanimity, presented as a lie.
I may live another fifty years, or I may not make it to fifty, inside my heart, I scrape out the plaque of childhood, of bitter memories, like roots that remain lodged in the soil of the earth, even after the till breaks apart the tangle, entangled and entrenched.
There was a time when hope for a brighter future lifted up my spirit, now, I only long for a happy death in life, quick and painless, without this prolonged agony, the body slowly dies, it fails in its functions.
As a young man, I laughed at the misery of others, it was not mine, but now I know, it was, waiting with great patience like a tiger who hunts her prey, watching, waiting to pounce, to chase, to kill.
To make it to ninety, or even, one hundred, is a profound moment, an act of will, of mind over the living corpse, that an everyday joy can be found in living, until the very end, when body quits this world.
To think, nobody stopped me as a child to talk about life, how they live, no one wants to reflect, it becomes too painful, to teach adolescents about the path they walk, to show them direction, by example, in words.
The chatter of restless sparrows inside a bush, safe within the safety of flight, of speed, the bush offers a place to rest before setting alight to another locale.
We are just like sparrows while inside a nightclub, where at the box office, I take in the money, another honest chump, who watches everyone have fun, talking, drinking, dancing, flirting, fighting, like sparrows in a bush, so much activity, so much idle chatter, where authenticity is nowhere to be found.
I scrape out the cobwebs in my brain, so my mind can flow with waves of blood and cerebral fluids, in order to survive I must clean my body, before I meet with death, I must cleanse the spirit before it attempts flight, I am what I am not, I am not what I am.
Bad faith forces the light to course through veins empty of blood, a living corpse, I am not undead, not a mindless zombie, not yet a hungry ghost, alive, I seek the real, the authentic in life, to overcome sorrow, suffering and the pain of living in this world.
Day after day, I feel old and unattractive, deep in my abdomen, insufficient to thrive with the young savages, non-stop partygoers, with the other grey beards, to compete in this life against other people, to what end, what purpose, victory is fruitless, those of you with children will never understand, my failure is my loss, as a man, I lack hope, nothing can sustain me for the next five decades, my death is imminent.
