Something is dying. What is getting born?
Did something die long ago, and did I simply not recognize it?
Was the thing that died real? I think it was the realest thing that ever happened to me, but was it real? Some say not.
There is something I don’t want to die and don’t want to lose connection with. It may not be my choice and as I say, this may have already happened, I may be the last to know.
I do not want the truth to be as empty as it seems now — and I don’t think it is, actually. I also don’t want it to be past.
Something a fortuneteller said to me, though, was: “Stop knocking on doors and stop slumming. Raise your sights to where ‘things can be served on trays’.”
What do I gain by allowing myself to be overburdened with service to others? Evasion of self, or of my own value, surely.