Death is stalking you, all the time. Ever think of that? Life is like a horror movie, a Final Destination for all of us. With Death stalking us, quietly, stealthily from the shadows. A cat to our mice. One by one our friends are snared, nabbed, killed, sometimes before our very eyes, often, out of sight, word reaching us by phone call, by email, in a small blurb in the obituaries. But nabbed all the same. Taken by a faceless predator prowling about, seeking us, seeking us all.
We dodge. We weave. We seek to avoid and to extend. We want to keep going. We don’t want to get caught. We want to live. Unlike with Freddy, or Jason, or Michael Meyers, there’s no surviving in the end. Not for anyone. Ever. There’s no escaping. Death gets us all in the end. No matter what.
In the meantime, we try to forget. We try and buy this or do t hat, to feel better about the temporary status of our lives. That 52” LCD TV though, it doesn’t help when we are laid out in our casket. It won’t fit, for one thing. We can’t take it with us. When the lights go out, the TV show that is our lives goes off the air…..forever. All that we’ve bought. All that we’ve done. Gone. So much crinkly leaves scattered down the streets of time by the winds of change, skittering, scattering across the pavement, breaking apart, piece by piece, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left.
The worries pile up. We’re scared of this. Of that. We feel incomplete. Imperfect. Unloved. We want this, or that, in hopes that we’ll feel better. That we’ll forget for just a little while that we’re only here….for a little while.
I’m not pretty enough. No one will love me. I need to be prettier. If I’m not pretty, no one will notice me. I’ll drift through life, alone. Unwanted. Uncared for.
My boobs aren’t good enough. One’s an A cup. One’s a B cup. I’m a lopsided freak of nature! I’m proof that not all of nature’s creations are beautiful or well formed. I want DD’s. I want big jiggly breasts that a man can lust for. That a man will be stupid for. I want. I want.
I don’t have enough money. I need more. My pants, there’s so 2007. I need to be up to date. My car’s paint is fading. It’s getting old. I need a new car. I need something better. Something newer. Something fresh. I want to be cutting edge. I want to have the good stuff. I’m tired of having the hand me downs. I don’t want the leftovers. I want to be new. I want to be shiny.
The leaves fall and scatter about. Some red. Some orange. Some gold. All were new and shiny, just a few months back. Now, they are dead. Dying. Going, going gone. They fall about, lay about, waiting to be blown hither and thither. The short winter days shedding light on them for just a brief time, the light of the winter’s sun, like the light of our lives, only shining brightly for a short time, bookended in darkness, in nothingness.
The marble tomb encases the former baron of industry. His Ferrari and his Rolls now belong to another. The tomb is airtight. Or, it is, in the beginning. Above ground. Sealed around the doubly airtight coffin. Preserving the baron’s remains from being exposed to the air outside. To decay. He’s gone now, all of him that matters. What’s left is properly called his “remains”. Sealed, for all of eternity, or, for what passes as eternity in human minds. Worm free. Resting quietly in a tomb of marble, a tomb that itself will be weathered and whittled down over time. Over time.
Fall is the season of dying, winter, the season of death. As they come upon us it’s impossible not to think of these things, in the slanted light of the late afternoon. The day ending sooner and sooner. And sooner. Death. Dying. It’s why we party for Christmas, the non-birthday of the non-Messiah, days after the winter solstice, during what had once been the great Roman festival of Saturnalia. We party, lighting the candles, imbibing the wine, roasting marshmallows in the fire. We party to stave off the dark, the dying of the year, the loneliness that creeps into our hearts as we realize time is still moving, ever moving, going forward, dragging us along with it. Another year gone. Loved ones, lost. The unknown of the future staring us in the eyes as we go forward into the new. Over and over again, we go through it, a dance, a dance of life and time. Following the moves, repeating the motions. Until…..we don’t. Ever again.
The happiest mouse is….the mouse that thinks about the cat? Or the mouse that ignores the cat is there and focuses on the taste of the cheese?
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