Saturday, January 17, 2009

27 years

i think about the cigarretes i smoked in my early twenties when i was convinced i'd die at 27.
three instances led me to the belief of my quickly approaching death:
one. the television show Sightings, where i first learned at the age of eight of the mayan calendar and it's final date on december twelfth, 2012. i'd be 27 years old.
two. an indian man i encountered en route home, in san diego. he said he practiced accupressure and asked to read my hands, and when those seemed inconclusive in the dark, far from streetlamps, he asked to read my back through my shirt. he warned that at about twenty seven, i would see the manifestation of some illness that was already inside of me. he touched a point in the center of my back, no one in front of me, it seemed surreal to feel fingers indicating the origin of what will someday overtake me,
being only a sensation right then.
celebrities who have died at this age have gone on to become immortal. their souls guarded in the art. that seemed a fitting enough end for me. to live contrary to life, to be unending.
which, i suppose, is the same thing, having lived, to having lived.