THE CONSTELLATIONS OF THOUGHT 6: HOW TO REMEMBER A GHOST

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All things are important in the end. I will now account for the present, for this day. The night will cease when the sun arrives. Every breath I borrow from the night will cease then, too. I know I will forget the moon, as I have forgotten every breath I have taken thus far. Remembrance is the greatest gift of all. The only thing for me to do is account for my own remembrance. I use my words as hieroglyphics. I rely on my symbols to make sense of my existence. The most human thing one can do is write about one’s own disappearance. I am tracing tomorrow to remember now, amongst the order of things that also come and go. To remain in harmony with nature, I must gauge my evidence of life.

As a decaying life form, I discover my own skeletons, buried in time. I’m writing for abject reasons, out of my desperate want and need to remember. To be more than I am now. Today is today, not tomorrow. But something inevitable awaits me. I’m aware of an end, yet I leave these things with you here. Every time someone reads my words, it proves I have lived. And I slip out through the back door of heaven and make my way into the world again. I’m supposed to give myself more time before calling it quits. But it’s almost four in the morning. I don’t know how much passion or time is burning in my heart. I assume I’m not calling out to the world, but rather finding a slit of freedom or some shape of salvation. I should return when the sun is up, to accept the fact that this time, I have been reborn.