Volume 5, Issue 1

Life is either ascending or descending. My own life finds itself on a downward spiral, picking up speed, moment to moment, plunging headlong into the black foam of annihilation. “What’s wrong, man?” asks the billowy apparition floating in the middle of my living room. “Where do I start?” I hear myself say. The apparition lacks details, the face smoothed over. I am certain the presence is male, though, in the absence of comprehensive evidence, that conclusion remains provisional at best. I am not bothered by the appearance of these immaterial figures. I’ve told myself repeatedly that so long as I do not attempt to make physical contact with them, I will maintain my equilibrium. “The problem,” I say, “is a pessimism of weakness.” The figure bobs a little as though a playful air current nudges it. “We live in a moving reality,” he says, “so duration is but an illusion. Everything is terminally impermanent.” This isn’t helping. My crisis continues unabated. The status of my soul concerns me most, though I am not religious in the least, and deities have never brought me comfort or guided me to victory. And yet, instinctively, I feel peril for the immaterial part of me, and not just the musical buzz between my neurons, but a deeper part that aches and has ached and cannot find relief. “You’re a romantic,” says the floater. “I feel bad for you. There’s no future in it.” All this fucks with my head. I need to cleanse it of dead and corrupt ideas. But it might be too late for that. I should have taken action long ago. But sometimes, we think we’re riding high and shielded from the arrows of decline. No reason to think otherwise until your flesh is pierced and perforated, and you’re leaking life force all over the place. “Do you have any suggestions?” I ask. “Nah,” he says, “at this stage you’re pretty much screwed.” Many truths stand on the shoulders of falsehoods.