Look upon me, for I am the baby staring at you from the hollow gap betwixt two airplane seats, and I know when you are going to die.
Do not turn away from my stare. To look away is to ignore, and to ignore is to rob yourself of knowledge. Gaze into the deep well of my light-sensitive eyes and follow the icy blue to the truth you inherently seek. The truth that we all seek. You claim that fear forbids you from finding this truth, but fear is the slop we gobble from the trough. Hear me now.
Goo Goo
You are going to die.
Gaa Gaa
Does this shock you? Make you feel vulnerable? Endangered? Impuissant? SHAKE OFF YOUR SENSE OF SINGULARITY AND ENTITLEMENT, EARTH PEASANT.
[Blows a spit bubble.]
We are all marching towards death, whether it be step by step or a mad rush. Your imminent end does not haunt you anymore or any less than any other poor soul scrolling or sleeping or sitting or shitting in this metal vessel you humans have worked so hard to rely upon. It transports the fleshy receptacle that your blood and brain and bones reside in so that you may be distracted from your final destination, DEATH.
[Spits up.]
DO NOT LOOK AWAY FROM ME, MORTAL COIL, NOT EVEN AS MOTHER WIPES THE MILKY DRIBBLE FROM MY CHIN. The tiny computer in your hands will not save you. Nor will the jewels you adorn around your neck or the plush cashmere and rough, torn denim that you cover your soft animal body with. You ornament yourself with earthly belongings, impossibly biodegradable waste, filling holes we dig to hide our filth, and you liken it to armor. DOES YOUR IPOD HAVE A SOUL?
[Screams.]
Have you traced the light blue veins of your Cartier tennis bracelet as your body cradles it in the bath? Have you been bewitched by the rise and fall of your Oura Ring’s chest as it lay sleeping next to you? HAVE YOU TRICKED YOURSELF INTO BELIEVING THESE HOLLOW POSSESSIONS WILL IMBUE YOU WITH IMMORTALITY?
[Hiccups.]
LOOK INTO MY EYES AND TELL ME, DOES LONELINESS NOT NIP AT THE NAPE OF YOUR NECK?
[Hiccups.]
LEST YOU FORGET, YOU WILL DIE, AND I KNOW WHEN.
[Mother begins to pat the baby on the back. He spits up again. Mother whispers, “That’s my good little guy.”]
You fill your home with THINGS, likening them to a barricade. Le Creuset, PlayStation, and plush, posh pillows. Water in cans, water in bottles, water sitting cool in a Britta. Ice in the shape of an anatomically incorrect heart. A heart you feel safe enough to hold while you ignore the bloody mass that rages inside of you. A special shower head that removes the toxic chemicals you’ll inevitably suck down somewhere else. Somewhere like the produce that you think will keep your body young, your skin elastic, and your cells cancer-free. YOU WILL DIE, AND THESE THINGS WILL CONTINUE TO BE JUST THINGS.
[Mother begins to raise the baby up and over her seat in a repetitive motion.]
And all the while you accept these things in place of a person. Because to love means to lose. And to lose is to leave, to be left, forget, and be forgotten. This is what you tell yourself each time you tap your flat plastic bartering tool to a faceless screen. More things, fewer people, fewer losses, more life. But why do you focus on the incessant pursuit of avoiding inevitable endings while defying the ultimate and unflinching ending of life? To lose something is to have had it in the first place, is it not?
Ba ba ba ba
DO NOT MISINTERPRET MY WORDS, YOU FLEETING FOOL. Do not make the mistake of likening losing a watch to losing a lover.
[Squeals.]
You enter this life from another, pushed from body into your own, and you think the world demands staunch singularity of you? There are no other truths: You begin, and you end. A heart that beats is a heart that craves another’s cadence. Another note to make a song, a hand to grasp, a breath to pass between two open mouths as they attempt to make a moment into memory that the cells call home.
LOOK AT ME, SIMPLE MORTAL, YOU BRIEF LIVING THING. Nothing on this earth will save you. Nothing you buy will stop your heartbeat from one day ceasing. Nothing you consume will add seconds to your life. You are designed to die. Do not forget we are not made just of ourselves, and we are certainly not made of things.
So look into my unblinking eyes, you fragile vessel, and ask not “When will I die?” but rather… “When will I LIVE?”
[Mother holds Baby’s butt to her face, “Uh oh, someone needs a diaper change!”]
