——I feel like I am trying to escape death, by thinking about it. It’s like one of my important side projects. I feel I have still alot of time to accomplish this, but on the other hand it is something I have to eventually manage. I am going to think my way out of death, personally, and escape it altogether. I won’t be one of the ones who die, as are so many others, but I will kind of walk out on a pier, and be taken by the hand of an angel. Or I will slip between the gears of some nightmare machinery. There are lots of ways out, if one wanted to concentrate on an escape–which I don’t want, you see, because I am full throttle into the paradox of–my own consciousness!
—–“Is this your goal?,” I hear someone ask, catching me up on this assertion.  I say, “yes, I am going to escape death, by thinking.”  I am going to reroute myself around it, I explain. It repeatedly occurs to me, I have to testify, that this is entirely possible. Not that I know how possible it is, mind you. Just that it repeatedly occurs to me that, if I think about it, I will see how possible it is–to escape death as proposed by dire circumstance, say, of age, accident, or disease. What other ways can one die around here? Seems kind of flimsy, flimsily arrayed these threats–and randomly applied. That is what I have against any of the deaths I’ve seen enacted, if you want to know; they are random–like randomly applied to the people targeted. Not majestic. Even if deserved in general, or even desired, these people escaped on their own terms when you come right down to it. And I think I can duck it, also. But it will be by pure thought. I think I am going to have to duck death by thought, and it won’t apply in my case, in that sense, because I will evaporate. Or I will wander off into an unfinished afternoon.
—–For it must be only a task of consciousness, and consciousness is my longtime specialty. Now, because of certain explicit displays of other people, who got caught dying, I feel I am finally faced with having to pronounce, at least, that I am myself engaged in having to think it through, the tedious and ominous question of my own personal death. Whew, that took alot out of me just to write that sentence. Think through this question of what death is, I say, while still sitting here, and able to get up and put another log on the fire. And why, taking out my pipe, it becomes secondary in my case, if I can confidently say I can think my way out of it, entirely. And why, even more dramatically, I am still not actually convinced that anyone else has died. I have witnessed things, and heard rumors, but even with this more or less first hand experience, the subjects themselves,  they too seem like jokers, these escapees from life. Plus they show up in dreams!
—–Of course it can’t be that I am surprised that this theme is central. Obviously life is completely bounded by death at every level. Reasonably speaking, everybody dies, sure. But life is one thing, and truth another. And I leave the level plain of life, I’m sorry, when confronted with just the miserable cycle that includes yawning death.  I am positioning myself in an adventure of reflection on the free subject of death. And it is free. Certainly I don’t object to death’s existence as an enfolded fact of life, if that is as far as you want to take it. But, hear me out folks, I do object to the glib use of it as an explanation. As an ending, as a funeral, as a thumb in my face.
—–And everywhere I see displayed raucous disregard of the deep meaning of death, the very potential of it!, as a beginning, in every instance of people dying, and in their dying being regarded as gone, out of use, useless. And what of the broadcasted silence you put out, that you betray about your own case, as if you buried a secret meditation and were preparing a trial of your own soul on your own? What of this secret project you have, to evade thinking on the subject altogether? As if you are somehow radically inexperienced, suffer no pressure of ever being exposed for your gross ignorance, questioned in talk at family gatherings, say, or at the mention friends who were suddenly cut off from the whole action narrative of your life. Freshly animated friends who, out of the blue, keep jumping into your memory.
—–Ah, I see some corporate definition of amorphous life is horribly, headlong involved in promotion of the duties for a future generation, instilling in the young the message that the world, of course, survives them. In one instant of such an equation, it is throwing them on the trash heap. I am serious–while I am willing, and desperately wanting, to question the status of any world that survives beyond my awareness. What status do you have, reality without witness? Surely it is no tape reel of the future made with the imperfectly focused lens of historical time. No, I have a different kind of time, in which to effect what I want. I have the power of thought. I want to conquer this question, of how my awareness can straddle this life and something after it.
—–No legend of death can intervene.

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