I lay there dead, mangled, parts crushed, some strewn about in a mish-mash of gristle, blood, and fat now defined by an unbeating heart, an unthinking mind, an undone spirit. So, of course it is no longer of consequence to me. In fact I find it is a weight lifted. I am no longer mired in my conscious entanglements of arbitrary pedestrian fear.

I am speaking with presumption before the fact and metaphorically of course. The dismantling that I imagine as a horrible accident began decades ago when I first recognized that first difference between instinctive, affective, interpretive and contemplative, and it will end with my death. At that point, and not a moment before, I will know, or not. Whether I die quietly alone, or to much unfounded fanfare, (whether that fanfare be the nature and circumstance of my death and/or the histrionics that follow), I will die quietly alone; mangled; strewn about; gristly; unnecessary.

The biggest question for many is, in that moment after death, will I be looking down upon my mangled parts with some sort of greater Wisdom? Or will my truth merely be strewn about for others to forget, ignore, walk around, or scrape from the bottom of their shoe? The biggest question for me is, over the next few years, maybe decade or two, can I pull or keep myself together enough to be recognizable as a consistently coherent contribution?

Sure, the thought of an unworldly weightlessness, existential or not, does have a certain appeal. But the thought of me mangled and strewn about, (as we all to some extent are), keeps me focused on the task at hand.