Volume: 2

Bad Moon

Hitting bottom after quitting.

I flew with skill that belies my sporadic visits to the activity. I don't know how I maintain that precision.

But it was tiring. The flying, coupled with waking at four, made my eyelids weigh a ton when I returned home at noon. I looked through some ads in the paper. One local company had a position for a programmer analyst. I don't even know what that means. I went for a walk, commenting aloud to myself that I would see where my poor brain would take me this time, and as expected, it took me to a new, all-time low. I walked around the greenbelts counter clock-wise and by the time I returned I could find no meaning in life whatsoever. I had a lump in my throat and my eyes were wet.

I had a glimpse of the insignificance of humanity as it relates to the universe; of the insignificance of the universe as it relates to reality; of reality having no basis, nothing. Arriving home, I knew I had visited something different. I didn't fear the feeling. I suspect that these forays into the basement of life are good, places where I lose all conditioning, all pretenses and all familiarity. I could not identify what remained. This basement had no windows, not even vents. Just one narrow stairway up.