Life

 Life

So, Life is over.  Or, more likely Life never was. I think of something. And then I imagine that it never existed. But maybe it exists, and it is I who never existed.  How would I know? And would it make any difference either way?

Will my great granddaughter awaken someday, and ask, did I have a great grandfather named Richard? And if so, why? Or why not?

I think of India. Why? Because I lived there. Or did I? Does that place exist, or did my mind simply invent it?

And then I think of Donald Trump. Surely he exists, does he not? Well, does he? Ummm, maybe . . . maybe not. Does a squirrel wandering alone in the forest know of that Donald Trump? And if not, why not?

We went to our Farmers’ Market this morning. And folks wandered about, some even spoke to me, or about me.  And did that matter? Why would it? Some laughed at me, with me, about me. And then they went off without me, to spend the rest of their lives without me.

Why am I writing this squirrely piece? Because I do not any longer exist in any meaningful way?

But tomorrow, will I awaken and understand that life  is but a brief moment, and then it is gone, as though it never existed.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow. Will they arrive on schedule, and then go away, as does everything called life? I stare out at existence. Will that Donald creature still be here tomorrow? Or will he too disappear as though he never existed? That would be nice.

Tomorrow. Yes. Do arrive.