Holey Words

In that, yeah, they have holes in them. Gaps. You know, the line-spacing is a little relaxed. I don't want anyone to conclude I've taken up Religion, 'cause God (ha ha, anyway,) knows there isn't that kind of order in me right now.

But the questions we say have no answers get asked, and not answering them is an answer.

And since so many of these questions raise themselves through the inconceivable (!) patterns in life, I'm always asking if the answers are written there as prominently, and simply are often ignored? We do all make a lot of the same mistakes, right?

And if I never asked what was the difference, or the sameness, or in whatever ways the mystery, between myself and That Other with the stare and the smiles and something, then I'd have never thought about what is myself. And I never know what that is more strongly than when I know there is a death ensured for me. That death doesn't scare me so much. Dying scares me, I don't cherish the thought of sickness and bodily decay, hell I don't even like feeling nauseous after a long race, and that's candy compared to some things.

But I feel like every passing way in which I live my life in some way right is an indefinable, lasting triumph over that death. I'm not talking about ascending to the heavens on a column of light so much as putting, or at least provoking, something good in the world.

This ain't really my sort of thing to write, you know. But I felt like it, dammit.

So where is this leading me? Is it worth asking? I know I'll have to find an answer somewhere, and, sometimes I hope, soon.


Edit: Kirsten, who incidentally has been arguing with christian wackos who say that oral sex is okay before marriage but condoms mark one for hell, just asked me if I was dying. Let me lapse from laughter to the sternest of eyes: haha, no. Holding off on that one for a while, you wouldn't want me dying without you knowing about it, right?