I’m going to go ahead and state that today was a death day. Lots and lots and lots of death happening. Seemingly all around me. From presidents to funk masters to people I’ve actually met and hung out with. It’s making the rounds. Sorry to sound so blasé, but a spade’s a spade. This particular spade is especially spade-y. It’s the final comeuppance, after all.
Final, final, final… I realize that this is an eventuality. Death is the lingering cymbal crash of a brutal symphony. It’s the deflating airbag of an explosive single-car accident. The finishing touch of icing on a horribly burnt cake.
Wait, no. Make that a BEAUTIFULLY burnt cake.
Regardless, it’s inevitable. Simultaneously catastrophic and wondrous beyond my comprehension, yet so easily grasped in its totality. And what’s funny is that everyone has already been there, we simply don’t remember.
Let me explain that last part, since it sounds hella-Haley’s Comet Clique and shit.
Wherever it is that we’re headed, if anywhere, is likely wherever the hell we were when we poofed-up in our mommas’ wombs. That was some variety of ether-spillage, and the return is logically some version of ether-return. Well, not logically. But potentially.
My point being: it is highly likely that we know exactly where we’re going when we die. We know, because in some sense, we’ve already been there. We’re subconsciously aware of exactly what’s in store for us. And like a vomit-nervous cat on its way to the vet, maybe, just maybe, it’s that deep-seated awareness which makes everyone so goddamn scared to go.
That, or you believe in hell.