Thursday, February 23, 2006

Dead Man Walking

It's a matter of months now, soon weeks. I will walk more than two thousand miles to Maine, funds and health permitting. It has all the pleasant aspects of being under a death sentence. Every experience, every sensory object in this life is suddenly a feast of self-examination. The way that I interact with the world is about to come to an end, and what are we, really, other than interactions, information filters, condensates of a computative quantum ether? The people in my life, work, my strange relationship with a dysfunctional Company . . . I am looking at them from a new perspective, realizing that everything is about to pass far from me, into rock, shadow, and fog.

So I soon shall end. Something else will proceed, as the zebra carcass goes about its business in the body of the lion, or, for those of a spiritual bent, as the soul goes about its business in the Wherever. What will the trail shit me out as? Am I nutrient, virus, or angel? I have absolutely no idea.