…The fear of death and living life in vain…
even to say it,
as I sit here, at my desk,
which is like my own private Star Trek
holodeck,
and flight deck/cockpit,
where I figuratively
“fly”
to and/or through
my abstract thoughts—like planets and their moons–,
feelings—like looming changes
in gravitational forces, brightness and dimness of light—
and my memories—some like treasure, which thus, brings me pleasure;
some I wish would never
return to my mind; some so fragmented
that I can’t find any kind of coherence…
though perhaps with time I could…
…As I sit here and write… even to write
about how death and living life in vain
frighten me,
as if to verbalize
the states of various places within my mind
were to give life,
so to speak, to the words,
and…make murderers of nightmarish words,
so to speak…
though if that were so,
on and on I’d go
verbalizing my prayers
“into reality”:
for example, my prayer for my immortality
and immortality for anyone else
who wants to be immortal.
…Do you think
it’s ironic
that one’s consciousness
can fear
the prospect of disappearing…
as if consciousness
could be conscious of death
and yet of nothing else?!?