A Sense of the ImpossibleMature

There are many things I have aspired to be in this life.  Perfect isn’t one of them.

At this particular moment I am lying in a pool of my own blood and shit somewhere near London Bridge, seconds from death.  My aspirations have more or less dropped to zero, I would say.  It feels fine.

I’ve been looking for this place, this time, since I can remember.  I have been on my feet, walking lost, in search of it for many years.  Now here I am at last.

There has been a promise made to me that in the instant I cease to struggle, stop panting like a dog in the sun and just let go, that I will become perfect – and, more than death itself, this idea terrifies me!  The peace that I have found by coming to this end – the effort of a long, long journey - is shattered by the over-whelming burden of infinity which awaits.  Yet here I am, beckoned by comfort.  The oblivion I believed in and hoped for will not be mine...  I can actually see the tunnel; I begin to drift along it, losing taxis and street lamps and brick and rain and dirt and shame and guilt and fear piece by piece – I can feel myself becoming perfect.

And I think: “So let’s begin...”

The End

5 comments about this story Feed