Gliding Into Port

Ai Cherestami, I don't know. Wind ruffling my hair, the luff of my jacket as we ease into (out of?) port. What then, Cherestami? And freedom goes for nothing.

But. Clang clang clang! Bells, always bells, always noise, nothing ever holds still long enough to actually think.

If there were once quiet, if there was once a glide into a calm port... do we even remember how to think? (Did we ever know how to think?)

I mean, there is nowhere to turn, at this point. There's only one rope to seize, only one way to climb. Going further down the tunnel is not going to help. You are not going to meet a slimy creature to riddle with. It's just cold dark water, from there down, all the way, Mynheer. 

(No, we never knew how to think. Yes, we have been going the wrong way all this time. More questions can be submitted on 3 by 5 index cards, neatly printed. Thank you for your attention! Your business is important to us!)

So grab that one rope and climb, little one. There isn't anything else. Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O sea! 

I mean, this is where you meant to arrive, Cherestami. Am I wrong? This is where all demands cease. And this is the land under strange, unmoving stars. Nothing happens here, Cherestami. That's why there are no demands here. (Except the ever more frantic demands of your fatted heart.)

So, to take stock: the exercise program has actually been wildly successful. Your stamina, my Lord, is almost what it was pre Covid. Were it not for your fatness increasing in nice proportion, you would be in good physical shape. As it is, you look to die within a few years, after much misery. Don't do this to yourself, fat man. Take advantage of the fact that no craving hooks up to fulfillment any more. Yes, it's a miserable state of affairs and it means death, death, nothing but death and one that is much nearer than you used to think. (Did I mention that you have always been a self-deluded fool? I should have mentioned that.) 

There is a very very important sense that I am looking for death as well as for peace. I need to distinguish between the two, though. It's not all looking for death. It's partly looking for air and ease. I want to get out of the hole. I want to climb the rope. 

I used to think I was not ready to be dead yet. I have softened a bit there, I understand it a little differently now. Of course I long for death and I always have. That's okay. It's just one of the longings, though. Don't totalize here. It's not the only thing I want; it's not the only goal I'm driving toward. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to die. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished. It's not identical with suicidal intent. "One fine morning, when my work is done I'm going to. Fly. Away. Home. That's all. Just that. And I look forward to it, like Bergson, with cheerful curiosity.