I WILL ROT LIKE A DOG

The poet Gil Scott-Heron wrote: "I said I wasn't gonna write any more poems like this, but the dogs are in the street." Death is everywhere. The baby boomers are going out with a whimper and not with a bang. 

I'm preparing myself for death as I commence my 74th year. My father lived until he was 87 and my mother is 94, so maybe I should be more optimistic, but I've never been more confused, fearful and angry at any time in the previous 73 years. 

I live alone and have no beliefs in a god or everlasting life. I believe that when you are dead, you are dead although I have a lingering trepidation that there might be a hell inculcated into me as a result of my Catholic upbringing. 

Nuns telling five-year-old children that they could burn forever if they missed Sunday mass can have a traumatic effect on an innocent that leaves him trembling in permanent paranoia until he exhales his last breath.

Siddhartha Gautama, before he became the Buddha, was an Indian prince who knew nothing but luxury, but wealth could not blind him to the grim reality that surrounded him. He could not find tranquility knowing that man grew old, became sick and died. 

These troubling thoughts inspired him to forge a philosophy that would imbue him with contentment throughout his life. Ultimately, he wanted to die peacefully. 

I have started down that last stretch to oblivion. I will never attain the Buddha's transcendent state. I am 99.99% carnal and .01 spiritual. In the same manner as my age, the numbers don't lie. I am an animal and I will rot like a dog. 

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