Should I have gone with the icy-hearted psychopath and finished it off in properly dramatic fashion? It was just . . . so cheesy. Like the way the season of Hannibal ended that featured the psychologist/amputee primly sitting in the luxurious abattoir. When people are just going through the motions, the drama has no meaning under it. However, it would have been more interesting than this. On the other hand, the limb-severing symbolism is so apropos: when you're capable of forming proper attachments at long last, destroying them to get something that sounds good on paper is about as hard as cutting off your hand to win a million dollars. Some things come and some things go. Some things do not grow back.
I feel like the question of attachment, or lack of it, has been the central theme of my life. Firstly, removals - of property, of home, of the people closest to me. Secondly, deaths. It did not make me cold, it made me very emotional, but . . . there is an inner wellspring, which you have no matter what you lose on the outside and which can sustain you through impossible privations and trauma, but which you can also lose or abandon. People whose spirituality gives them strength when everything is shit are probably talking about that well. It can physically keep you alive when you're in a situation that should be fatal. It can also make your body fail when it isn't flowing. There is a desert you must have the fountain flowing in full strength to be able to cross; you lose everything but that while you cross it. But I'm telling you, if you seek it outside yourself you will collapse face-first into a mirage. This is why the superficial benefits I might be able to have seem more dangerous than any loss: if you give up your real treasure to grasp an illusion, you become a shell, a dry pool, something asleep in the mud waiting for a flood.
The sun and moon shine inside your body. You see their light reflected on the world from within. Going towards the light falling upon the things around you, you are seeking yourself. They are will, consciousness, and love. When you are present, not reaching for the things around you, you can feel them shining in your heartbeat. Oxygen flows, and gives you life. Where will these things be when your body is gone? In a blue haze around the Earth. Where will your body be when these things are gone? Back into the dust. What is this union, then? The sun calls the rain out of the sea. The wind carries it, and it is tangled in the mountains, falling and caught in the silent pillars of the trees. Through endless circulations, the eyes staring at the earth and whipping the oceans into vapor and cracking open the land until fire spills out cause life to fold upon itself over and over until finally, countless eyes stare back. You will be folded back into other eyes as the endless elaborations spiral upward. Many eyes, one life, many cycles, one progression. Violence and darkness are the tools that carve ever-higher iterations from water, air and light, the past continually the food of the future, the artist constantly sculpting a further thought on foundations of broken bones.
Where you go, no one knows, but you always get another chance to be drawn into the wind, into the weather, into the forests, into the beasts, into the mind of the one, into a future constantly revolving on a past that will never cease; you don't have to be attached to pieces when you can't be disunited from the first cause.