Everybody knows someone dying or dead.
Some tear-jerker of a story they’ve put in a boxed narrative and held at arm’s length
like some garbage that smells.
Of course, the story’s realistic, the person was real, and the pain is available whenever called upon.
But put at a comfortable distance nonetheless
because of a taboo about exploring self tangled with oblivion.
The boldest of vanities that places story of other up front
while burying the more pertinent story every waking, looping day.
At the heart, you’re sad because you are the one dying . . or worse, dead.
More of terror, perhaps buried beneath layers of self-importance.
Explanations of purpose, mission and legacy.
And all of it pre-supposes the answer to a question rarely asked.
Is any of this serious?
Is it the gift the preachers swear upon?
If so, why do we marvel at people – seemingly without amygdalas – who risk it all for small thrills.
Like scaling the face of El Capitan.
Or risking the most uncomfortable of drownings at Nazare.
Or sacrificing the independence, thoughts, aspirations,
and God forbid the leisure time of countless others for the sake of a war,
a cause or even a corporate mission.
Bringing soda, drugs, fertilizers, devices or soap to the masses. . .
and spending more sweat and bills to ensure they psychologically demand it.
Why keep these humans on that most manic and fantastic of treadmills?
And why heresy about death.