What's Left of Me -- An Abstract Heap

"How many people become abstract as a way of appearing profound?" Joseph Joubert

Answer: At least one, Joe; to wit:

Decay is en route to the land of the dead and the land of the dead is decay. At any point along the way you may pause and discover what is left of me as you are carried there by the creeping belt below you that conveys you forward to the hum of an ancient motor through the decay toward the land of the dead. Visit with what is left of me as you are carried forward into the land of the dead. Step back. Still hold the rail. Observe now the aggregate movement within the surface of the path beside the belt. Or is that muddy water? Blur your eyes. Whatever you may think, you know that what you see, though barely alive, is real. It is what's left of me.

The crawling pixels of subtle movement were once part of a promise that was made and then broken, as in the case of practically all human pledges. Observe what's left of me. Are you fixed on me? If you are fixed on me than you will observe that the movement is the hallowed struggle espoused by Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Mao and me. This is the gross coalition that struggles against itself for space and time that no longer exists, relying now upon the echo of the old promise that was made and then broken, as in the case of practically all human pledges. What wills it? What moves the crawling mass? Fear? Amino acids? Hatred? Stand at the rail. Wonder, above the green and the blue and the black and the brown as you blur forward what is left of me. Wonder, as you see what's left of me, what could have been or better yet what was to have been if you still believe in that. Wonder in the dark if I am less alive than the old man on the rail. Embrace the filth of what is left of me. Now compare yourself to me.

Wonder if you will the nature of my matter. What is left of it? It will strike the man at the rail who is you that there is no appreciable difference in our struggling pixels. The man on the rail who is you will be left to wonder if my movement is mistaken for that of my neighboring matter, which was once of the ocean, or one from a deep plunging valley, or the vines that hung deep that were used by grey chimps for climbing down and up its vertical drop. Monkeys. Horses. Snails. Wheat. Vines. Organic rails. These are my neighbors that crawl over and under what is left of me.

You lose sight of the entropy when you lose the forced blur of your vision. You adjust your eyes and there it is again.

It is what's left of me.