I have not yet accepted my own death.
I live like a knave, foolhardy and blind-eyed.
It sits out there, a shadow on the horizon,
reaching towards me as the sun recedes.
I know it is there, as it is for all who respire.
I cannot see it, through the curtains, through the glass,
blotted out by revulsion and cultivated ignorance.
Perhaps it is best not to know the cape and boot of your pursuer.
The crushed leaves and snapped twigs are mere facts of the folly.
They cannot be uncrushed or unsnapped by my concern.
Endless happiness and disregard of the horizon is unsustainable.
Forced recognition–onus–guides my hand to pull aside the fabric,
contracts the diaphragm to breathe low and hot,
condensing my moisture on the glass,
and with a clean sleeve,
wipe clear a glimpse of mortality.
“Keep passing the open windows.”
Hotel New Hampshire, by John Irving
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