"I drove down a windy road and parked in a field of bullet shells that fling
their contents back and forth while half the world is dying. This is 1972.
A billion gallons of natural fuel, burned in the engines of a favorite few,
while half the world is dying." Some little, well-meaning, very earnest
prick wrote that, I suppose. After repeated self-flayings, blue-funk
steepings, and catatonic meanderings, he finally decided to . . . live.
Didn't ever save the world. Didn't even save himself, considering all the
self-loathing. A lifetime spent digging himself out of a hole compounded of
guilt and shame (shame at being human). Laughter, the dire kind, the only
salve for burns that don't heal. No closure, just dissonance, an uneasy
enduring, together with a weird joy despite all, diagnosed by Nagarjuna as
'clinging mind.'
I watch my mind jump these hoops, again and again. And I breathe in, and
out.
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