It always amazes me how we’re not injured. Or dead. How something hasn’t happened to us. Some accident. That we’re not missing several limbs. That we’re not brain-damaged. That we don’t have terminal cancer.
Maybe we have.
We’re so, like, vulnerable, right? We’re so easily damaged. Easily destroyed. Anything could happen to us, and yet it doesn’t really. I mean, how come we haven’t been murdered? How come we don’t have maniac stalkers? Why isn’t there some serial killer pursuing us?
Maybe there is.
And the Earth’s vulnerable, too. Just rolling through space. Turning on its axis. Why hasn’t some massive meteor rushing in to strike it? Why has it survived for so long? Why does it still have an atmosphere? Why hasn’t it just blown away into space?
Why didn’t we die long, long ago? Of some childhood cancer?
I think we did. I’ve such a sense of having died. Such a sense of never actually having lived. For not a moment. Never having been born. Never actually begun … I think I died long ago. I think I’m a ghost.
Work in Progress 