Glimpses of a past life keep showing up these days. The troubling thing is that the past life I am speaking of is the one I am living right now. For it to be a past life, isn’t a death necessary?
It remains to be seen what kind of death. Is there more than one kind? It seems so, but I can’t be sure just yet. What type of death has as it’s result some kind of survival?
Things are slipping away. It started a very long time ago, but it continues even now. The first to go was the ability to believe the bullshit. Some time later, the strength to pretend it wasn’t so disappeared as well. Then my fate was sealed. My bleeding hands started to loose grip on the hangman’s noose and I walked away from the gallows, leaving the spectators to watch the next show. I escaped the hanging, yes, but I became irrelevant. I no longer mattered.
This feeling that things are beginning to be over comes from a building sense of loss, and emptiness is what follows. Loss of opportunity, loss of love, loss of respect, loss of belonging, loss of virility, loss of relevance ………… damn the losses.
I can hear all the voices now, the pleas to witness the richness of aging. Yet, their talk isn’t really meant for me, but for themselves: they are at a loss for words, unable to grasp that what I really need is compassionate silence, connection through unflinching, moist eyes. Silence can communicate a shared experience of the world. Isn’t that what compassion is?
From where I sit, it just makes sense to feel these losses. They are real to me. They are real for lots of people.