Make Death Worth It

So here we are - you and me - resting, sitting, wondering about what is next to come on the platter of what is next to come.  I sit with a warm tea warming my right foot.  It's green tea, but I don't really want to drink it because I am enjoying this feeling of tired.

Today is Valentine's day.  I don't know what to write about.  In fact, I have been dawdling all morning trying to avoid writing altogether.  I made a smoothie.  Then I memorized all the ingredients on the special powder I used in it.  I checked my email seven or eight times.  I stretched my back by positioning my body upside down on the staircase.   I sat in a squat while reading the abstract of an essay about the relationship between certain pollutants and type 2 diabetes.

I popped a pimple at the end of my right eyebrow.  I made another cup of tea.  I looked through the refrigerator for cream and found three containers of sour milk products which I brought out and intended to throw away, but got sidetracked and forgot about them. 

I plucked a few hairs from my chin.  I sent some text messages.  Now, here I am...thinking about food, thinking about mermaids, contemplating dreams.

Among other things, including (but not limited to) images of stealth bombers practicing loop-d-loops in a pristine sky above a dirty beach, I dreamed a dagger was thrust into my heart.  Through the protective barrier of my ribcage, the implement entered my back with keen force, then twisted with a combination of subtlety and confidence that indicated skill on the part of the stabber.  I did not feel physical pain.  I attempted to identify my assailant, but could not easily turn around.  When I did eventually, I was met with faceless onlookers. 

"Vengeance!" my brain yelled, "Who has done this?  There must be retribution!" This was the thought, a forceful mechanism for comfort in a moment of great confusion.  It was the logical thing to do in a time of coming undone.

"Attack back!" a voice sounded, though I knew there was nothing left to defend, nothing left to save.  The humble realization slowed my frenzied movements.  For a moment I wondered if I had stabbed myself. 

I sat down in the space that was now becoming blurry, much like the physiognomies of those nearby.  Alone.  A question arose, "Now that I'm dying, what do I wish I had done in life?  What am I most proud of?"

I woke after, the sensual remnants of heart piercing lingering as I lie in a soft bed.  Why is it scary to do what I love?  Why is it scary to love?

I ask you now, whoever you may be, is it as scary for you to love?  To love yourself so much that you give yourself the gift of doing what you love?  Or loving what you do? 

Is it like that for you, kind reader?  The experiences that highlight mortality are those which so vividly illustrate the importance of love?

One of the scariest things for me (as well as a thing I love most) is to write.  So I give myself a gift today: I promise to write a blog every day for the next month.

If you have certain things you like to read, let me know.  I'll write those.  I can write you stories, or sensual encounters, I can include recipes, advice, my anxieties, yours.  Manifestos, diatribes, reflections on academic abstracts regarding the relationship between pollutants and type 2 diabetes. 

If you like I will write specifically to you, something special - not faceless - personal. 

Because - chances are - I love you.  And I love myself enough to indulge in the ridiculous universal love that is always driving a knife into my heart and demanding I do what I love most.  Today we celebrate (or don't) Valentine's Day, the marrying saint, VD, a famous mobster massacre. Today and in the days that follow, let us love the shit out of ourselves and do something (maybe it's scary) that makes death worth it.