The Significance of Death, Part I

I've tried changing my route. Going "to" seems to be worse than "from" which is at the end of the day when you might conjecture it would be worse. Changing the route seems to be the poultry way out in some sick way of thinking (often a way that I think). I chide myself that I should force myself to absorb the nastiness of the "caninus inocentus" incident in all its gory splendor. To rub each and every ounce of its disgust into my pores and let it percolate through so I can blend all of the implications into my world vision. Translate that unhappy moment into some sort of activism and action and development into a "better" person.

Conversely, it is just perverse that I strangle myself on the grotesquerie of it instead accepting my role as comforter, allowing the progrees of nature to be my solace and to know that I was instrumental in the gentle passing of a life. My focus and image should be of the transcendant light of transit and the transformation of being, the devastating gift of nature that runs both hot and cold. My place in the universe, and the universal flow. My place just there and then.

This is a struggle not just about the death of a small creature, but a physical representation of the signs of our times and of the forecasts of our futures. A time to sit on the haunches and think and chew the cud and smoke the pipe and maybe even trip the hallucinogen just to get a glimpse of the other inner side.