2006-02-04

Halcyon and on and on

We are perfect until we are seven. I read that somewhere. Up until that point, our bodies haven’t even begun to age yet. If we could continue in that perfect state we would live forever.

I am no longer seven. I am twenty-six, but I feel much older. My body is dying. It has been doing this for at least nineteen years. It still looks great, and I’m happy to have it – and even in its present condition, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Sure, it has some problems – they all do. But mine is great. You’d love it. It’s strong, it smells good, and it has hair in all the right places. I can get it moving pretty fast and you wouldn’t believe how high I can make it jump! Sometimes it scares me how long it takes to land! It’s fun.

Lots of people like it. When I roll by, I see people looking at it, checking it out, eyes darting this way and that. They pretend that they’re looking at other models. But they aren’t. I can see that. They want to know what it would be like to own this body, to call it home, to be privy to all its wondrous secrets. But they can’t. It’s mine, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

And my voice! What a voice. Not today though. Today I am sick and sound like Johnny Cash. My voice is all scratchy; gone, it has, to sickness and rye. But some people find Johnny Cash sexy (well, the alive version, anyway), so, you know. Now he is probably full of worms. They are turning his body into dirt.

Which is where we all come from, and where we are all going. Back to dirt. Out of the Earth we come, perfect in form for only a passing moment – an eye blink really, it all goes so fast – and then we are seven, and then we are dying.

Dying is wonderful.

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