This morning I thought of what would happen if you died. I wouldn't belong at your funeral. I never respected you the way I should. Just thinking of all those people there that would never tell you to your face. It's sickening. And I'd be one of them if I went. It just would not be my place. But today is Sunday, and you're not dead. No, you're incessantly present.
The beams warm my hands and feet on the concrete steps. And I think of deaths brother, nothingness. Now, he may not be dead, but he's more dead than you. More dead than your conceivable funeral. Because he's nothing. If you want nothing, then you are nothing. Emptiness inhabited. Be anything until your dead, chase is chance.
© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011
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