Some say when you die you move toward the light. This seems
dark for light. Perhaps I’m not dead. Maybe some didn’t know what they were
talking about. What if it were me who misunderstood them? What if they meant
that when you die you move toward lightness rather than heaviness…? But people
talk of a bright light, right? Yet they’re also rising, as if they no longer bear
the weight of their bodies. Then again, maybe, there’s a third kind of light
that some meant, as in a light bulb lighting seeming a symbol for someone
having an idea, the symbol being that in death one becomes omniscient…we’ll
know when we’re dead, some say. Or some others might say light refers to
goodness. All these people with near-death experiences seem like nice people.
Like good people. Conrad doesn’t have Marlowe quoting Kurtz: “The light, the
light.” Hell no. We don’t hear of cases of serial killers or mass murderers
[there seems a difference] or pedophiles being brought back from drowning or a
heart attack and how they saw a brilliant light and began rising up into it…as
if being abducted by a UFO…and how when they came back felt themselves totally blissed
out in their God-given lifestyles…I wonder what Charlie Manson will see? Did
Jeffrey Dahmer’s light look more like a glowing gullet, as if he were falling
into the warm, sacred effervescence of someone’s gastric bubble bath, of someone
else’s acid reflux? Do we all end up feeling justified in the end, or just some
of us?
I don’t know.
I think I’m dead but can’t prove it. To disprove it would
require my being alive, which would mean people would acknowledge me, and I’d
have some facility with tools and technology. Yet I haven’t been touched in
days. I can’t Tweet. I have no face to book. Those same some sometimes say “poets don’t drive.” But I’m no poet. I’m terrified at being cut loose
in the universe.
What if I’m not actually here? What if I’m only an idea? What
if all this manifests the final dregs of my residual unconscious? If you’re
reading this, could I be dead at this the time of writing? Well? I can’t be photographed.
Does my enlightenment seem to haunt this page like a ghost? Maybe
so, but my heart feels knotted. What I seem to see are memories of things I’ve
done that have somehow tattooed themselves onto my mind, their ink permeating
the membrane into my psychic genes, now forming these patterns of genetic
memory dancing before my eyes—a whorl of genetic thoughts awaiting action.
How will I ever untie myself from this nonsense? Does the moon ever shine in heaven?
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