Hemingway believed in moments of respite from fear of death. It’s a frightening thing. But consider, when we put our phones to charge, and silence speaks through the darkness, what are we left with? What’s beating in our ears?
Death, like the atom, cannot be seen, but is known. It’s a structure bound to fail; we follow a fateful, fatal, hidden line.
Some, like Salvador Dali, Carl Sagan, Michelangelo, Stephen Hawking, etc., copy themselves out into the world. They escape the seclusion and poverty that is body and spirit; they embrace wholeness. Others cannot bear the routine of being who they are. They are desperate and tired. Insufferable. They discreetly slip out from life through a hidden exit to experience more. They greet who they would have been and scold who they are. They surround themselves with the absence of within. They, choose to die. They face death.
They choose to write.
Or so they try.
passionfordisquisition 