posted on Oct, 20 2008 @ 07:18 AM
I didn’t need any more drama. They say what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. They tell you to face your fear. But you don’t have to, not if
you want to stay alive. The best thing to stay alive is not to face your fears. There’s a reason they’re your fears. Don’t ever forget that.
It’s not like the door to heaven will suddenly open up and golden light will walk through and beautiful women will walk out and welcome you home.
It’s more like you’re homeless and have no place to stay and nothing to eat and don’t want to be arrested for vagrancy and spend an eternity in
debtor’s prison. I rolled down the car window and pushed my hand out. The yellow moonlight fell onto my hand. The moonlight went right through my
hand and fell on the ground. I was surprised. It didn’t hurt. I guess something had happened during the long drive and I didn’t even notice it
happening. I got out of the car and the moonlight shone through me, like I was transparent or invisible except to myself. I didn’t get it.
“C’mon, let’s go in,” Bob said.
That’s when I saw him for the first time. “What’s happened to you?”
“Is that your costume, or is that you?”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
“I don’t know. None, I guess. But, you’re imaginary. You’re not even here.”
“So what?” Bob took off toward the old deserted church, where the party was already in full swing.
It didn’t make any sense, the church was right next to the mortuary. How could it have taken 600 years to drive a couple hundred yards? Time was so
long but it was so short, it made no sense at all. It wasn’t Time at all, it was Life that made no sense. There was no time. There was aging. As
soon as I thought that I know I had reached the point of no return. I knew better than that, I never should have opened that door, I never should even
have walked up to it. What was I trying to prove, that I was immortal. And how would I prove I’d live forever …by dying? That’s where thinking
got me after 1,200 years. I was still going around in circles. Pretending things made sense. Pretending there were reasons. Arguing over nothing.
Fighting over reflections of who I thought I was projected onto the innocent faces of other phenomena. Fighting myself for 1,200 years. It was some
kind of crazy joke. Is that what immortality was? But I wasn’t dead yet, so I could I taste it. How could it sit on the edge of my intuition like a
ghost of living past and living present and living future, all shoved into a masquerade ball on Halloween in a deserted church surrounded by a
graveyard next to a mortuary. I couldn’t wait to go inside the party. I pulled open the church door and went inside. I guess that’s what a
deathwish is, wishing you’d live forever, opening up the door, and walking into the party like everything was just the way it was.
I remember what Loretta had said, one of the most beautiful women in the world, a gin and tonic in her hand, leaning against the wall, “Isn’t it
awful? How can you stand the loneliness.”
I was young at the time, about 300 years old. I still felt my oats, knew I’d score if I was patient and could wait it out a few more decades, here
or there, and I’d meet someone and jump in the sack for a few years that later seemed like a few minutes of splendor in the sunshine on the bed, my
favorite music playing, rolling in the arms of love, rocking and rolling, sweating, coming like it would never stop all night long and all day long
day after day, week after week, year after year, decade after decade. But, each time, now I see it was really only a few minutes. Each of the women
I’d loved was like a photograph in an album I’d discarded in another life that no longer fit and almost never could have been at all, for all it
was worth. It was measured in character, in loss, in ignorance and youth. I didn’t recognize anyone at the party. How could I? Everyone was wearing
costumes until midnight, the bewitching hour.
I remember what Sundance Acacia had said, there in the hallway outside her kitchen, the light emanating from her face in sparkling auras. She was so
beautiful. She was a midwife. Brought life into the world. How could it have ever worked. I was a mortician. I watched death, made my living off it.
She made her living off life, bringing life into the world. I made my living off the dead. We were opposites. Not exactly opposites because we were
both alive. But now, looking back into Time, I see her joy and my sorrow probably as clearly as she had seen it then in my blindness.
The hollowness came. Here at the party in the midst of drunken revelry, of spiritual masquerade, of drunken abandon. Why was it haunting me now, this
stillness, this emptiness. Of all places, of all times, why now? I felt alone. Silent. Still. Not dead but the next best thing. Feeling apart from the
party. It was like hell was my best and only friend, and wasn’t talking to me. They were all gone, all of them I’d ever loved, pages in a book in
a library of books in a world of libraries and thousands and thousands of phonebooks that were discarded every year. We used them at the mortuary when
we’d cremate the corpses. Dump-trucks would deliver them every day outside the crematorium ovens. I looked in one once and found my name, before I
threw it into the fire while the fire turned all evidence of life, laughter and sorrow, triumph and defeat into ashes. We put the ashes into metal
boxes or pottery. It was a mistake to use pottery because a loved one of the deceased could drop it and break it open and fill the air with ashes and
choke on them as they dried out your tonque with regret and clogged your throat so you couldn’t breath and you started to suffocate in the memories
of your love and those who had held you and kept you and loved you then died and left you, here. This was quite a party, all right. We were all
dressed up in costumes of who we were, trying to disquise ourselves from our disquises, laughing laughter that was not laughter, speaking of peace
that was not peace, of immortality that was mortal, of eternity that ended over and over again and again in a desert of junked and broken lifetimes or
in a grocery store filling a shopping bag with dreams of another time and place called yesterday or tomorrow but never now. Now was the Halloween
party, the costume ball, the witch’s Sabbath in an orgy dancing within the flames of hell itself.
I walked out of the crowd into a hallway where I could catch my breath. I could feel them through the walls, feel their thoughts, feel their
attention. But that was better than looking into their faces and reading their entire lives written in their eyes with glowing cigarettes and tears,
disappointment frozen in their grins and shallows with Jack Daniels, mud slides, joints and lines while the dying graced the world with last gasps in
torment on a spiritual battlefield sheeple can not see but for the fear of death which is not death from a life that is not life but stillborn
There was no place I could go. I turned to God but God turned away from me. That was impossible, but it happened. An angel told me it was my fault,
that I was blind, that I didn’t understand love was just an illusion like everything else. But, I knew better. A devil agreed with me but then I
changed my mind and so did he. Witches cursed and made wax and mud effigies and spilt blood on them but that didn’t hurt me, only damning them to an
insufferable mirror existence of flames and shadows while infants of the innocent slept in peace or were burnt and maimed in war. Little Bo Peep had
lost her sheep and didn’t know where to find them, but here they were, at the Halloween party bleeting and baaing and making little sheep after
sneaking away into bathrooms and bedrooms and closets propagating themselves into being like ants and flies did. I grabbed a plastic cup and filled it
from a punch bowl of champagne and wine and 7 Up and vodka and whatever exotic powders evil had pissed in. Then, went outside alone in the snow-dusted
stillness in the dark hour before the dawn, staring at the moon and its reflections in the ice crystals frozen in a divine crust each crystal
reflecting spectrums of rainbows on the ground, just like the stars flashing different colors above in the black sky. Everything was spinning because
I was a little drunk. I got lost in the snow and was terrified. My head was on fire. I knew they were out there and suddenly I didn’t care about
them, anymore. And watched the sun begin to rise on another cursed day. It was very beautiful.
[edit on 20-10-2008 by counterterrorist]