alive and insane
I was born knowing I'd die. Every cell in my body knew it before I was able to speak a word.
And though deep in my brain there lurks a constant awareness of my mortality, it's impossible to live with this knowledge. Facing it head-on would kill me. I couldn't get out of bed or chew my food or wipe my ass if I was constantly reminded of the very real fact that my story will end with a one-way descent into the realm of the inanimate.
So for me to function...even barely...I must pretend that life means something more than nothing. I have to fool myself, even for a moment, that my daily activities, my little victories and acts of creation, will stave off my inevitable destruction. I must convince myself, against all evidence, that it's noble to struggle and to never quit. I have to ignore the gnawing sense that life is an act of falling down a bottomless black hole, one day at a time.
To live life fully, to wring every drop from it, I must make believe that everything I know is false. I must turn my back on reality. To live is to be insane.
I'm not complaining. There will be plenty of time for sanity and nonexistence.
