Venting into Thin Air, pt. 3
3
I don’t know what kind of hell I’ve been condemned to, where everything I want is permanently out of reach but only by mere millimeters. Nor do I know what I did to deserve my place in this brilliant cycle, but I am here. That’s what matters. That’s what I must face day to day while beads of sweat drip from the bandana permanently affixed to my fucking head as some sort of lost symbol once meant to represent rebellion, now merely a vestigial trace of my long lost sense of identity.
It’s not that I ever was a whole person to begin with. None of us are, not scientifically, not theoretically. We are the sum of our parts at the very least, and the rest is speculation. So why I feel so attached to my sense of self I do not know. Perhaps it would be best if I just departed from it completely and forcibly. But what would that solve? Would it allow me to save face when I meet my maker? What if our maker is the same nothingness from which we were first sprawled — could nothingness be mad at me? If nothingness is anything like black holes, then perhaps it welcomes us openly. Regardless I am in no rush to face the end, and in fact I’ve never felt more alive. The watchers have a cruel sense of humor, I suspect.
