I feel guilty being the pro psychic. Talk to the dead, don't believe in afterlife. Remote viewing blind reader, making the future happen while others fight over scraps. Knowing truth can't tie my shoes. Beautiful at sixty, weird.
What is "Joy of Dying?" Immortality is just "The Art of Living Fiction." One of my favorite ghosts is my younger Brother who died "92." I fall asleep with the TV, he's watching too, Mom's in the next room. Even my atheist Dad is here with me. I don't forget. But that's just the start.
Visions possess my living will. Dreams too bright, love too deep, words too sweet to swallow. Everything falls to we who wait for only a right to share. Wealth is the accumulation of material cast offs, and all I get is this priceless immaterial. You can say I am a cartographer of the exterior calculus. Nothing that does not further.
I live with these nagging headaches, picking at my food, tasting smells, loving anyone, these agonizing ecstasies are nothing to brag about. Joy of living is the joy of dying. No one wants to die unless we are very sick or troubled, but occasionally we find the middle. Once a sense of meaning is derived, a resultant can be extracted. This memory recoil carries over into the next lives with vigor boosting life onto new beginnings and joy. Walls melt, people learn, and never a drop is spilled. Embrace the darkness, love the forgiven, we have been here a million times before.
