I almost died this morning
The corner of Humboldt and Metropolitan Ave in East Williamsburg almost turned into the scene of my death this morning. I was listening to Robyn, and wearing sunglasses, so when I made the turn to cross Metropolitan, I didn’t see the incoming truck until it was almost too late.
“Until it was almost too late” could have been any number of sentient beings that have a brush with “cruel” death. The distance between that truck and my vulnerable body, the “distance on the look of death” doesn’t flash anything (like childhood snapshots mingled with teenage fantasies), or bring one’s life into sharper focus; it’s merely an almost end. An ellipses of consequences I’ll ponder until I forget.
The “almost” moments once drove me to consume bourbon at 11 AM on a Monday morning. Now I’m just left with a feeling we all get at some point: it’s pointless, this fleeting thing called life.
If I had died this morning, I would have left: roughly 5-10 friends in hysterics; one upset lady; one set of parents numb from grief; a twin sister alone with an aging family; a set of sentences untethered to anything resembling completion; a life, barely flickering towards a largely uncaring world.
I almost died this morning, and absolutely nothing of import would have changed. Once you figure out that humble point about your insigficant gait upon the world, then you’re truly free.
In other words, nobody gives a shit. You’re dead. Try and enjoy whatever the hell happens then.
We’re not Whitney Houston, and I’ve already turned down “the hard stuff,” so the end won’t happen with a pipe and rock, but it will come—hopefully later rather than sooner. The point driven home this morning during my “almost death,” is “when” doesn’t matter so much as the inexorable almost’s that dot one’s brief moments of corporeal existence.
The fire flickered in Plato’s cave as that truck came chugging by and the exhuast plumed in my face; for a moment there weren’t any shadows on the wall. All was nothingness. I’m cool with that: I’ve looked that Tyger down, and the Sheep was just as alone in the end.
The truck didn’t miss God; Now shut up, and get off the curb. Looking both ways isn’t necessary.
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