A part of me exists only in memory, as memory. It resonates with music, books, smells. It projects onto my own personal cave wall, hinting at some ‘Real’, dissimilar from, yet connected with my own consciousness. It teases me in my chains, showing me that all I must do is cover half the distance (and half the distance again and again) to access the egress.
A series of half-lives, building or decaying (little matters in the distinction, except the direction of the circle’s spin) from something to something else. Heart, soul, mind, body—all different now, all continuous with that other, that ‘me’ of the past.
Does the child father the man? Or is Wordsworth’s irony backfiring? I don’t know. True or false, I must persevere with this paraconsistency of being; inaccessible dark matter. To split ourselves from ourselves and from each other, moving forward as a company, a band, a host.
* * *
I’ll put aside the prozac and speak with the voice of madness, if madness it is which drives me toward my grave. This is the end that we seek—our graves are our honour discarded beside our muddy clothes, splashing forward toward the base of the mountain.
Zarathustra went the wrong direction. Having reached only a foothill, he turned back to carry a lamp of the external fire to the poorwitted souls, and they agreed to pretend that his mountain was beyond time and space.
Passing him running in the wrong direction, have we a notion yet of what it is to be a self? An answer is folded inside the pain in our feet, the smell of our bodies. I’ll perhaps sit by the roadside to contemplate this for a time, but the task is too great to be undertaken in contemplation. The road carries us along regardless of our care.
The grave lies open and waiting for us to recognize our procession towards the dust.