Funny to call it that, but when the soul journeys out from the body,
What else lies on the table but that which is enduring the cutting?
Like a lamb at the market providing only the choicest meat for observation.
My soul resonates with Douglas Adams’ quote, yet stubbornly butts up against it, as my usual week, my usual time, my rest-seeking soul fights the dullness of the nine-to-five “assurance” of the world which calls me “wrong” for creating, “right” for stressing, and “weird” for seeking more than assurance that paychecks come and exhaustion reigns.
May the peace of assurance rest upon your shoulders
like a soft cloak that warms you in winter.
May the song of joy fill your heart with energy
like a bird’s call fills the early spring air.
There are two light bulbs shining in the room
like two fixed eyes in a reflection.
Already the person has disappeared
and there is a thud in your head.
It’s like the sound of time passing.
It’s like the echo that would reach you
in advance of your own future death.