Pure Speculation

space suit skull

I’m dead.

It could have happened any one of several specific occasions that come to mind, or maybe a time that doesn’t come to mind, or maybe in another existence in another dimension like a dream. I may have coughed at some point and given up the ghost or perhaps it was the other way around–the ghost giving up the body and moving through the dry places seeking with whom it may cohabit.

Maybe life isn’t like an A-B scenario, like Western thought and plot indicate–beginning, middle, end. Curtains. Maybe it is cyclical, like the pagans of yore or maybe something like Eastern philosophy replete with reincarnations and the advarious Bardos and Nirvanas asworn by the gurus and lamas. Perhaps heaven really is just the extraterrestrial phenomenon and people are blessed surgically and genetically, which might at least explain things like resurrection and immaculate conception. Maybe hell is full of archaic reptilian daemons infesting the bowels of the Earth–corrupting humanity through lust and greed and wrath.

It could have happened to me that time when I was in Reno and I took the little bit left in the corner of the bag. It was the summer of 2005 and I had ridden a bus out an hour to get to some Walgreens where I had the chance to purchase the little syringes for diabetics which were employed solely to plunder my own veins in a grand defiance of the gift called life. The last time I had fucked around with coke out there I was disappointed on the last hit, so this time I made to sure to take enough. I might not have survived–I heard spirits whispering, noticing me, sensing their wonder at whether or not I would “come over” as my physical self turned pale and oozed toxic sweat staring into wild eyes asking myself “Now? Now?”

Or when I was back in Northern Colorado at that one coffee shop, the one that I remember visiting in my dreams, a place where my soul is smudged all over. Was that really a ghost I saw after fleeing into the cold night, across the street and railroad tracks into the empty dirt parking lot? Was it a good witch or a bad witch? Did that being of light foretell my untimely demise–or was I just falling through yet another level of existence incomprehensible to the mortal mind?

Or in 2008 when I wrecked the Kia. I smashed it HARD and thank God that my girlfriend and I walked away from that. We had both been drinking off a keg and a small bottle of Captain Morgan’s having taken some pharmaceutical amphetamines. I wanted to fuck so I was cool to drive. Cool to drive 70 miles per hour right through that T-intersection and wrap up on that sapling. That piece of shit Korean car saved our lives, the airbags deployed. But that flash of light–that smell of sulfur. Is that when I crossed?

The chakras, they might just be portals through which the energy of the soul can be harvested. Sex, work, study, sadness, communication–all methods of generating and transferring the food of the dead. And this money, who in the hell’s idea was that? When you’re in jail you borrow a stamp and write a letter and give it to your jailors, and hope that it reaches the destination. When you write a blog on the internet it goes into the grid and someone might read it someday and you got across. But you never really know, do you? Could just be that you’re all alone writing, broadcasting, screaming to no one. Quarantined until further notice.

Maybe it’s like multiple existences all happening at once and when you are perceived to have died in one existence then the others just keep going. Then your ghost can be heard from across the gap by those inclined to listen. Can you hear me?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s