Showing posts with label dying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dying. Show all posts
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
A Life's Lesson...
I killed a squirrel this morning.
Hurrying down a snaking two-lane back road in the early-morning fog on my way to work, the little grey furball darted out in front of me towards the double-yellow lines. No way I could've stopped in time, and no way I'm slamming on my breaks for a squirrel even if I could've. But I swerved to the right, in the direction it had come from, in order to at least try and miss it. But as soon as I swerved, the little guy noticed me coming, and darted back in the same direction I'd swerved, essentially running itself under my wheel. If I hadn't have swerved, I wouldn't have hit it.
I felt the bump, and I heard the da-thud-wump against my car's undercarriage as I ran over it. I looked in my rearview and saw its limp, lifeless, furry little body flopping down the road in my wake. I instantly felt like shit. And then I felt like an idiot for feeling like shit. I mean, it's just a squirrel. And I did what I could to try and avoid it.
But I just couldn't shake the feeling that I'd done something wrong. I'd ended a life. And we're not talking about an insect or an apple here. This was another mammal. I don't have any experience with that, so I don't know how to feel about it. But in my gut, in my Tao, it feels wrong.
No, it probably wasn't sentient; it probably wasn't aware like we are. But it was still a complex lifeform. And killing it didn't help me to survive in any way. I feel like it had every right to gather nuts, and chase lady-squirrels around tree trunks, and not get run over by some asshole who's late for work.
What's the Brightside? I don't know. I have no doubt that there is a lesson here, I just don't know what it is yet. I guess I will use this opportunity to practice acceptance. Acceptance of myself (I cannot be good or bad, I can only be Michael), acceptance that all things must end (All things that are, are Change), and acceptance that living means that sometimes the Universe is going to throw a squirrel under your wheels.
Sorry, Mr. Squirrel.
Hurrying down a snaking two-lane back road in the early-morning fog on my way to work, the little grey furball darted out in front of me towards the double-yellow lines. No way I could've stopped in time, and no way I'm slamming on my breaks for a squirrel even if I could've. But I swerved to the right, in the direction it had come from, in order to at least try and miss it. But as soon as I swerved, the little guy noticed me coming, and darted back in the same direction I'd swerved, essentially running itself under my wheel. If I hadn't have swerved, I wouldn't have hit it.
I felt the bump, and I heard the da-thud-wump against my car's undercarriage as I ran over it. I looked in my rearview and saw its limp, lifeless, furry little body flopping down the road in my wake. I instantly felt like shit. And then I felt like an idiot for feeling like shit. I mean, it's just a squirrel. And I did what I could to try and avoid it.
But I just couldn't shake the feeling that I'd done something wrong. I'd ended a life. And we're not talking about an insect or an apple here. This was another mammal. I don't have any experience with that, so I don't know how to feel about it. But in my gut, in my Tao, it feels wrong.
No, it probably wasn't sentient; it probably wasn't aware like we are. But it was still a complex lifeform. And killing it didn't help me to survive in any way. I feel like it had every right to gather nuts, and chase lady-squirrels around tree trunks, and not get run over by some asshole who's late for work.
What's the Brightside? I don't know. I have no doubt that there is a lesson here, I just don't know what it is yet. I guess I will use this opportunity to practice acceptance. Acceptance of myself (I cannot be good or bad, I can only be Michael), acceptance that all things must end (All things that are, are Change), and acceptance that living means that sometimes the Universe is going to throw a squirrel under your wheels.
Sorry, Mr. Squirrel.
Friday, April 16, 2010
"Sicilians are great liars..."
Oddly enough, "Drug addict" and "President of the United States" share one thing in common. Both titles, once earned, are yours forever, and can never be disowned.
I am a drug addict. Whether I use or not, I will always be a drug addict. The only difference between me and the sad sacks you see on shows like Intervention, is that I'm good at it. I am a smart, and successful drug addict. Those unfortunate people are ignorant, and weak, and they just seem to run headlong off the deep-end as quickly as possible. They don't have the knowledge or the will to keep from being completely consumed by their addiction, so they just go straight up in flames. It's not their fault (usually); it's just how things turned out for them. But I'm smart, and strong. And I have the intuitive understanding of addiction that can only come from being raised by a family of drug addicts. I am a GREAT fucking drug addict.
I'm still killing myself. Obviously. No different from those pathetic zombies on the TV; not in the end. But see, I know what I'm doing. I know how to make it laaaast. I know how to keep it from killing me too quickly, so that I can continue to use. Make it take as long as possible so that I can suck every single molecule of meaningless, masturbatory bio-pharmacological bliss out of it before it inevitably kills me.
THAT is the mark of a great addict. Exerting only just enough control to keep it going, to make it last, but not enough to stop. "We called him 'Mother Superior' on account of the length of his habit." Too much control and you quit, and the fun's over, and you live a long, boring life of wishing you could get high; too little, and you end up dying of the DT's in the gutter before you ever even get to live.
I want to live as long as possible. But I also want to feel good as much of that life as I possibly can. I know, in the end, that I'll die screaming. But will I regret the choices that brought me there? I mean, honestly - doesn't everyone scream when they die? Still, the greatest addict who ever lived, was still just a fucking junkie when you get right down to it. How am I any different?
We're defined by how we live, not how we die. (Unless you end up winning a Darwin award.) I never felt a need to be great. Never had any desire to change the world, or "leave my mark" for future generations. I just want to live my life with as little pain, and as much pleasure, as I possibly can. And so, every day, I get up and walk that line between living well and dying young.
I'm not sure where it's leading me, but the view is breath-taking. On both sides.
I am a drug addict. Whether I use or not, I will always be a drug addict. The only difference between me and the sad sacks you see on shows like Intervention, is that I'm good at it. I am a smart, and successful drug addict. Those unfortunate people are ignorant, and weak, and they just seem to run headlong off the deep-end as quickly as possible. They don't have the knowledge or the will to keep from being completely consumed by their addiction, so they just go straight up in flames. It's not their fault (usually); it's just how things turned out for them. But I'm smart, and strong. And I have the intuitive understanding of addiction that can only come from being raised by a family of drug addicts. I am a GREAT fucking drug addict.
I'm still killing myself. Obviously. No different from those pathetic zombies on the TV; not in the end. But see, I know what I'm doing. I know how to make it laaaast. I know how to keep it from killing me too quickly, so that I can continue to use. Make it take as long as possible so that I can suck every single molecule of meaningless, masturbatory bio-pharmacological bliss out of it before it inevitably kills me.
THAT is the mark of a great addict. Exerting only just enough control to keep it going, to make it last, but not enough to stop. "We called him 'Mother Superior' on account of the length of his habit." Too much control and you quit, and the fun's over, and you live a long, boring life of wishing you could get high; too little, and you end up dying of the DT's in the gutter before you ever even get to live.
I want to live as long as possible. But I also want to feel good as much of that life as I possibly can. I know, in the end, that I'll die screaming. But will I regret the choices that brought me there? I mean, honestly - doesn't everyone scream when they die? Still, the greatest addict who ever lived, was still just a fucking junkie when you get right down to it. How am I any different?
We're defined by how we live, not how we die. (Unless you end up winning a Darwin award.) I never felt a need to be great. Never had any desire to change the world, or "leave my mark" for future generations. I just want to live my life with as little pain, and as much pleasure, as I possibly can. And so, every day, I get up and walk that line between living well and dying young.
I'm not sure where it's leading me, but the view is breath-taking. On both sides.
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