On [little] deaths (Part I)

Today, between the hours of 2:30 and 6:30 am I had one of the strangest conversations of my life. As always it was unexpected, even unimaginable. It entered a realm that was quite unfamiliar, mainly due to its content, not its concept. It was a fruitful universal contrivance. It was a window into a reality I now know for a fact does not suit me. I enjoyed the breeze, I stared right into the sunrise, but the window’s hinges now need to return to their little, designated holes. I have seen enough to know I do not want to dwell there. I could never belong. I can neither understand nor relate to it.

If you ask me, I am a little happier now. If you ask me, I am slightly more complete. But you won’t, will you? Maybe that’s a question for another time.

Bukowski said “find what you love and let it kill you.” For me this should precede the premise “provided you’re a phoenix.” I’m all about dying for what you love, as long as you’ve figured out your mechanism for rebirth. There are all sorts of deaths. Some are truly glorious. The French classify and define the orgasm as such: la petite mort, they call it, the little death. Call it what you will, it’s a release. And what is death if not a release of sorts?

The second premise should be “provided you don’t lose yourself.” You need to be intact when you’re reborn. If anything, you need to be richer…of something: an experience, a feeling, a realization, an acknowledgment, even a disappointment. As long as you come back with something. Death must come at the cost of life with a little extra, a little more…you. Otherwise what’s the point? But the death itself must come from love; that is the basic premise.

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