Word vomit about life and death, blah blah blah...Submitted by Tom Sorrell at 2015-01-19 06:50:30 EST
Rating: 1.6 on 7 ratings (27 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
If I kill myself in the future I guarantee I didn’t. I'm terrified to die, even though I spend a good deal of time praying for death. I often worry about what will happen after I close my eyes for the last time. Will I wake up? If I do, where will I be? An alternate timeline? The "real world"? The Heavens? Hell? Somewhere else? Where am I now? I don’t know and no one's telling. Wherever I am, it doesn’t quite feel real. Not anymore. Sometimes I ask myself how unreal would another place feel if this place doesn’t feel real ... then I say it three times fast for no good reason. Truth be told, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t exist, at least not in a modern sense of the world. I don't like anything I used to. I don't go out much. I exist like a mole. I work and go home and hide in my cave. I write sometimes, but I’m the antithesis of Burroughs. That man lived to write. He wrote all the time. I burrow and write infrequently. No one reads it when I do and why would they? I obviously don’t believe in anything.
It's nobody's fault but mine. I don’t know even what’s true and what’s false. After the millions of odd coincidences I've witnessed I still can’t believe anything strange is happening because there are too many strange things happening to figure out what's actually going on. What's up? What's the score? What's next? Even now, as sit at my desk with a freezing chill on my right forearm, as if a ghostly grip is holding me tightly, I type this out and the goosebumps on my neck raise slightly. Like a fool I still don’t believe the sensations are a result of anything other than my arm going to sleep, or carpal tunnel … or The Cancer. It could always be The Cancer. After all, I have little lumps scattered here and there. I should get them checked out, but I don’t have the money to go to the doctor. That’s a lie. I’m scared of what they’ll tell me.
I also know their job is a job like all others, meaning it’s done to make money, which means it's in their best interest to keep me coming back. I’m not a patient. I’m a customer. It's like this: I go in to have a doctor look at lumps. The lumps turn into tumors that need to be tested by another doctor in a different office, one who makes more money and is only available for appointments between rounds at Inverness, Sawgrass, Pebble Beach or whatever goddamned golf course they're on that day. It’s cool, though. I’ll just request another day off and get attitude from my boss for the next week, all so samples of the tumors can get sent to a lab to be glanced at, labeled and sent back by an overworked, underfed tech who stayed up until 4 AM the night before smoking drugs and watching Pulp Ficton for the 38th time. Why? Because their brain won't let them sleep ... or maybe that’s just me. Maybe it's all of us.
Or ... or, maybe we're all asleep and this is all a dream. It's a popular theory these days, especially for anyone who's seen the world the way Richard Linklater has. Who knows? Still, I bet if Dick goes outside Today and kicks a rock his foot will connect with it. He's stuck here too, regardless of what may have happened to a blurry Wiley Wiggins when he finally let go. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he and Wiley are out there somewhere in the ether "All-right, all-right, all-righting" with their friends and I'm picking it up like a radio tower ... but then, what would that mean? Am I dead? Are we dead? I don’t know. I don’t have a clue and apparently I'm not smart enough to figure it out. There are too many options. Too many fake saviors. Too many false prophets. Too many choices and too many power-hungry assholes who believe their way is the only way. "I try my best to be just like I am, but everybody wants you to be just like them." Indeed. An old friend of mine sang that in front of a crowd way back in the sixties. They boo'd the ever-living-shit out of him for it. So it goes, eh?