It is 02.30 now. The light is hollow. I am inside. It is black everywhere else. There is silence.
When you die, you are buried in a coffin that theoretically should break down with time. Your body rots as the wood rots. Eventually the ‘worms’ will invade. “He’s buried with the worms.” “He’s worm-food now.” That’s well and good when you are dead, but while you are alive the worms of life eat you. They come in and nibble at me all the time. Doubts, concerns, missed opportunities, thoughts of what should, could, would have been. If I was buried at sea I imagine myself eaten by the eels as I half float, half lie on the rocks and sands of the bottom. That’s how I see them. Then they’d be worms that come in like smoky wraiths, the eels of the day, Floating and feeding in the currents of opinion and regret.
My concern is that I don’t know what I should be doing, and I’m running out of time to do it in. Each second is nibbled at by the little worms, the inch-worms of the measurement of small amounts. On their backs are the thread-worms of minutiae, of lost detail, of half-remembered dreams, hungry mouths nibbling. They, in turn, are consumed by the sucking worms, the vacuum cleaners of this last hour. Each day, as mouthfull, is eaten by the great worms of time, like the great worms of Arrakis. They come up out of the sands of eternity with their mouths split wide, speeding like a freight-train, and they surface under the day as it struggles through the desert, and they swallow the day whole, taking it down into darkness. You’d think there would just be one, one day-eating mega-worm, but there are millions, and they are coming up as each of us look over our shoulders as we tramp tiredly through the desert, losing focus, losing time.
What I need to do is stolen, stolen by sleep at night, by day worms and night worms. I’m losing the very ground that I’m walking on. This is sure, this is steady footing. No it’s not. The worms of doubt have come to eat the space in front of you as you walk, while you looked the other way. Now the way forward is uncertain, the security you once had in stepping out is gone. Time is not on my side.
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and so many others before them and after them and on into eternity have been seeking and will continue to seek ‘meaning’. What is the meaning of Life? What is the aim of mankind? What are we so restlessly and hopelessly seeking as we wander like ghosts, like wraiths avoiding these things that would eat us, do eat us? Socrates saw the clear separation of the body from the soul. The soul immortal, the body frail and constrained by time. The meaning was to seek virtue, to live the ‘good’ life. The soul directed by a perfect virtue that was unchangeable and outside. Some would say unattainable. Stop, breathe and think. Break the thoughts down into their separate parts. How does the start of this connect to the middle of that and ultimately to the end? How are we connected to the end?
Aristotle said the end must have virtue. There must be a goal that is worth pursuing, and like a set of dominoes rolling back from their inevitable state of all having fallen, the first choice of action must be marked by the last result. Seek Goodness at the end. Does the end of all things have virtue? My horror is that each step is not virtuous. I’m stumbling as the worms eat their way ahead of me.
All of this is so tied up with my understanding of God. What is it that keeps me coming back again and again? Even though I stray away from Him, cut the ties, I keep on coming back. He calls me.
It’s 03.00 in the morning and I awaken. Why? God has talked into my deep. The worms are eating. They hear. Maybe they stop and look up. Do worms have eyes? These are blind worms. So they stop, sensing something that is bigger than their right to eat. And God speaks into the silence that is created by the worms not eating, not moving, not rustling against each other. God speaks: “Life.” God breathes over me.
The worms pull back and I awake. To silence, but to a consciousness that is pricked awake. Here is a space where I know the worms will come into soon, again, inevitably. But they are not here now, and their absence is threatening, because they will be here soon. If I sleep they’ll start eating again, and the night will be gone and the day will be gone and the night will be gone again. And one day I’ll be down among the worms of this world. And my chance will be gone.
There was an image on the old Oppikoppi site that said something to me. I have just thought of it now, actually. It’s the man who is opening his mouth and the worms are coming out. The time-eating worms. They have dates that they are going to eat. Their dates, their assigned time. Nothing he can do, no matter how focussed he is, will stop their progress on those days. They are the worms of 5,6,7 August 2011. The giraffes of ‘oversight’ can look out for him, can watch his back, but he knows that the worms are eating all the time.
What do I do to keep from being distracted? Nothing. I am constantly distracted. I’ll be focussing on ‘this – one – thing’ and then it’s gone in a rush of sensory experience. In the overload of things that will be seen, that will be heard. Things that take away the attention. Maybe I’m just hiding away from the guilt of not doing anything? Maybe I choose the distractions, even invite the distractions? In a neater, cleaner and more streamlined work environment you can see the distractions more clearly. The cool clear light of an unsullied mind invites them in. Maybe.
Tired now. Drifting again. Time to go back to bed. Let the worms have their fun.
(This has been cross-posted from my journal)
Shoot for the Heart 