I find no sensation greater than the enveloping dread found between existing and not. In this unrelenting slow grind towards not existing, death can be chosen or slightly avoided by precarious restraint. It is not a space with out walls but rather floorless in it’s immensity of the fall, an ecstatic drown, shedding civilized human interference to a base level of impulsive awareness, the instinctual, and the slightly learned.
The boundlessness of what I find in this solitude is considerable; it can’t experienced be with another. This lead-footed sink, deep into oneself, past being, illuminates the guttural of human drive. Yet In this state I find myself whispering names of others who unbeknownst to me, coalesce with my dark recesses…that fit “my death,” or rather, to be perfectly clear, “my dying.” They do not associate in waking movements, nor are they conversed with in verbal fashion, in fact it is those that I “speak” so little with…it is not my loved ones that I intersect with everyday in a negotiation of space and consideration. It is the ones that underneath the pleasantries and embattlement of co-existing silently pronounce a raw yet understood vernacular of loss and ravenous taking. It is with those that I will share my last moments of consciousness, those whom I will embrace even if facing away.
I have no name for this sensation, this peeling away of what culture has imbued, but I do know that it exists on the edge of an experience just as it throbs under my politely socialized surface. This profound ownership shared with something that I can never fully rationalize or understand is unmatched in its oceanic simplicity. There are no words, no entirety to return with, only a staggering, holding the promise of a fragment that survives temporality.
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