POEM
William James describes it well: the feeling of not-mattering. In some, the feeling becomes so extreme as to mimic death.
But what is this death? It is all an illusion, perhaps the edge of an autoimmune disorder or a curtailing of desire that happens
as one ages.
But how do I know? I don't suppose I do. I have only my own body to account for, and beneath it, the soul.
The soul influenced by the strong things, the body influenced by the weak things, the things of the flesh, of the world.
So: for a few moments, if I can close my eyes and think about cherries, I will revisit the feeling of death. But that's all. Only
for a few moments. And no more.
For life is bigger than that. Life brings with it Joni Mitchell songs and the tunes from the 1960s that make me sing.
And on the phone, a friend calls in, with the hope of the half-moon singing to me over the line, and something begins again.
TYPO
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