That Bastard Death

The future is in my hands. I feel it slipping through my fingers like grains of sand I thought were boulders. I thought I was a rock until I was eroded by savage wind gusts, now I’m a cemetery gravestone bust, wasted by the passage of time. Oh joy, the maggots will crawl into my eye sockets as ashes in a nondescript urn. Whose famous mantelpiece will I sleep on? Whose homey fireplace will I preside over?

I can feel the future-tide pulling me toward a watery grave. So deep underneath the ocean with coral reefs dying and sunlight never reaching. I feel the future in my hands as tangible as a waterfall passing through my body, porous as a sponge, soaking up random fragments of words or emotions, all disconnected to the intent of these lungs. I am an indiscriminate sponge and some stains bother me.

Does he know that I died a little? I’m stuck in a sinking submarine without contact with the surface. I am drowning in these thoughts like liquid kerosene igniting a fire that rages behind my eyes when I can’t talk out loud without threat of violent death. The tension rods beneath that suspension bridge are snapping and the whole foundation will soon be in ruins. I thought this was something else entirely. My dreams have been illuminated as truth amidst such a false reality. Thank you, oh shining knight, for clearing those cobwebs from the attic of my grandmother’s memory. You were the apple of her eye until she went blind.

In the future, I see an American flag symbolically burning in a governmental protest outside of the U.S. embassy some far away conflict nation. I am a resident and I am revolting against a life of past regret. I have the same old anarchy zippo from my adolescence, scratched off into empty incoherence, to ignite the torch that was my past life. It is all gone now. Everyone is dead to me. I am a part of a spiritual revolution. We care about space exploration once more. Human nature becomes more astute and studious. We only condone violence when it is against the willfully ignorant. Those jovial faces stuffed in by dinner plates. The pork roast laughing wistfully at such sour cracks of humor, ill-mannered for such a polite dinner crowd. How suave it is to be so uncouth, my dear. This is why you love me.

I see a decision I can’t make like a Russian monarch who finds his wife cheating on him with a peasant. He can’t decide whose head to sever more symbolically. I can’t say I know the best course of action, mine King. Snakes with their heads severed continue to strike a venom-less strike at attackers until they bleed out. It is a similar action that cause human muscles to spasm hopelessly after death. I hope no one is there to see me in my death throes. I wouldn’t want to mislead them into thinking that I still have the capacity to ward them off. I hope to bleed out before lashing out so senselessly. I hope to die a valiant death in fire or due to a falling comet landing on my old ford focus.

The only way I can allow a vehicular death is through an act of god. An earthquake opens up the fault on which the highway I’m speeding through is swallowed beneath the crust and the mantle. Lightning strikes a tree while I’m hot boxing the car in a vacant forest grove, smashing me into smithereens. The world is not round and I fly headfirst off of the Western end into the ether. Into oblivion.

I’d love to be hit by a train while I’m childishly flattening pennies on the other track.

As Vonnegut’s uncle said, “Shoot me while I’m happy!”

To die accidentally while laughing simply sounds divine.

My future is in my hands and my hands are bleeding. Sliced through layers of skin into the precious bone. I know not of how to act from now on. Vacantly evading all questions without regard as to why that is.

I have to.

I miss the allure of education as a sole purpose for living. I will return to this. Or else I may as well just end.

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