Seldom comes feeling without a price, nor trickery, sacrifice. Years fall through the fingers like grains of sand, new stories told through the lines in the palm of one’s hand. Every single solitary cell replaced, bodies, in their entirety erased. There exists not a single same follicle of hair, and evidently, in a world of junk food and television, not a reason to care. We awake to new morning rays, feeling the exact same as yesterday. An inescapable vacuum of impermanence but we somehow bathe in the warmth of blissful ignorance in spite of the ontological enormity of this. I am not who I claim to be, not one of us is that person we believe we see. Who is he? An ephemeral representation of me. And yet he still contains the same memory. His brain’s hemispheres are not mine, his four lobes have changed over time. What of these universals, this non-tangible memory? Exists it independently of him and me. They float in a sphere of abstractions, telepathically absorbed by every moment’s new brain cells, floating languidly through a realm betwixt heaven and hell.
The word “neurological” cannot be deemed autological because there is nothing logical to the neurological; beyond us, theological, asking too many questions all too toxicological. The highway of life’s mental slideshow evokes too much; why should a single melody or song permit a daydream with your touch? I am a completely different person in body and mind; it should only logically follow that the present me is doing well, no history on which to dwell, a clean slate calm as the music of the sea shell, but an amalgamation of the required tastes seldom does not remind me of your smell. Unable am I to tame excessive epistemological thought, but know I aught, the evolution of a being ought, after years passed of growth and mental capacities always wrought, should of a hammer and toad share a difference of naught. Study a photo of five years ago, it’s not a five years younger you, but a de-aged clone. An undeniable assent: frivolous is our physical world, for memories always transcend. They float through the air like subtle wind, surreptitiously seeping through cavernous cracks in the wall of your skull; a physically entirely different brain systematically installed that still holds onto every stat of professional baseball.
Though know: far more paramount than a statistic or number, is the film in your head that plays the moments of her. The representation of “me” that is he (perhaps a notional me, the clone in the photos we study and see) loved her years ago; yet I pay the sorrowful fee, docilely drowning in the shade of the morose trees, and therein lies an irony: I choke on love of a crippling degree, the bitter salts of varying emotional seas, a prodigious pathos of pity that never even belonged to me. I loved you, but it never truly was “me”, I meditate on these thoughts lest I may ever die under the leaves of those forenamed trees.
I thus ask: what are you God? Thou art a conscious both brilliant and wicked, simultaneously loving and cryptic. A pernicious general with an army of credulous obsequious talking heads of acquiescence, though too a benign shepherd of selflessness and kindness that’s beyond humans’ finiteness and what we may deem realistic; an omniscient love of the altruistic. I must be shackled inside this brain of truth and lie, but is it truly “I”? How may one define “I”? Ethereal transfers of images and tastes like wireless data that transcend what we may deem real, we cannot know anything from what we see and feel. This body a capsule that imprisons the soul, a perennial curse where I keep close both the best and the worst. I tire of her. Cannot she go away? Must she continuously keep coming, conspiring curse, contriving cries: those of “please” and “why”?
Let me sleep the longest sleep; blessed would be a new life, one to cherish and keep; somber sobs become euphoric cries, bred by these, such virgin eyes. Weep only the jubilant weep, resurrection from a consciousness so deep. Please, I besige! May I a reincarnated conscious reap! I preach not as victim, nor so piteous a pilgrim of the pedantic, I only desire a true love; not that of the ephemeral romantic.
Let the flow of new memories correlate with the new body and mind we await; a stepping stone into the future, walking on a more stolid water into things far more beautiful. Some stories, stagnate. Tales of emotional tempests, end in a storm of the tumultuous. Neither is there peace or placidity, scarcely a story that guarantees our emotional indemnity.
The fates of the eternal dictate a story’s ending; change be only permissible, approval of the Almighty pending. The power of the nefarious Gods impending, their guffawing condescending, though notwithstanding, the fates’ will not need servitude nor bribery for bending. For it’s not their decision for which the ending is intending, not their verdict to which goodness is tending; this one belongs to me, on no one else’s vision is it depending, a poorly written finale that needs mending, a tale to which I die defending because it is finite human limitation I am transcending and another plane to which I am ascending. No longer a need for pretending, I pen this new beginning that required amending, the previous story’s true ending.
I awake under the rays of an unsullied sun. I turn to her. “I love you”, says the one.