Tribute

When you talk about death before it comes, robbing you not only of a person but of a set perception of life, you feel above it. It glides above you, unable to reach down into the river of your daily life and hawk you up with it. It stalks behind you, no more than the shadow of the berry bush as you walk past it, thinking it won't harm you.

But when that shadow gallops up and sleepy hollows what you have (there, you had it, it was there - you spoke, and laughed and told your secrets) the rider trips you down. Stampedes you down, into the earth that shakes and chafes beneath the spade and splatters onto the widow's skirt. We are but dirt. Dust made of dust. But

No. It can't be that. I saw you going down into that hole but that's not where you are. You're still around, me and my dreams are still around, you and the dreams cinematic of your past and future. Spool. Round and round, yes, round and round - diurnal in your motion, passing through the mind and eye so silent. Freud says it's death. Silence is. Pick the third maiden, the third casket, the third door, and mum. Who picks it for you? The sickness in your blood, the God above? The random house of cards? I refuse. I still refuse.

I look at my hands in the shower and think: this is me. It's all I have. Sinews, bones, freckles on my knuckles, my nails, those veins. My body, and mind, and all I know - where does the knowledge go?

I dress in the mirror thinking that this body is my sole possession. You stop dreaming when you see that. Vulnerable, naked, susceptible to change but can it change? These are my genes, and they dictate the path, the fate, the fat, the sick, the firm, the height, the mind. And my consciousness? Who dictates that? Or, better put, can it be tamed? Into a tolerable drive of thoughts that helps me sleep, and wake up again?

To go to bed is the hardest thing of all. To sleep, perchance to dream, is to release into the darkness. The absurdity of your dreams proves the uncanny. That man in your dream you know very well, you've seen him before, you have the sense of his history. Yet come the morning and your eyes wide open fail to put the pieces together; a determination of intimacy remains within the pool of bafflement.

The moment I lay my head on the pillow, I am alone.