In which the author realises he has been duped by dreams of unreachable success, and finds his true self in the rhythms of the body. Continue reading
Cross-posted from here.
A suicidal person walks into a bar one dozen times. The immutability of life hits him in the face and he leaves.
“This is something I must consider, he says to himself, that life is a fact of life and that I must get used to it. Besides, I do not know what death is, and to want what I do not know is a folly that alone, perhaps, of all follies, is deserving of a final renunciation.”
Consequently he descends into a sofa and remains there, satisfied that death, not being sought, shall not seek. A few years later a disaffected man walks into a bar and leaves with injuries on a stretcher. Finding himself on a hospital bed, he looks at his reflection on the wall above him and returns to the thoughts of his youth.
“It seems I cannot run away from death, but neither can I run toward it. I knew this before, and thereby had made my life stable, weary, and had it worn down by routine into a heap of shapeless rubble. What, then, if in all directions I can see only lifelessness, impotence, and effacement, am I to do with my self?”
Something hits him, and this time the suicidal impulse is too strong. He is knocked out. The first zombie begins to walk the streets of earth, opening and closing its mouth, in the sway of insatiable, empty hunger, eating the illusion of humanity that is as air before it to be dispered with a perfunctory breath: “Yes, No, O.K., Whatever.”