The Ego versus Death

It’s been there since birth, that little voice inside me, singing, or shouting, or wailing, me first, me first, me first. The rudimentary mantra of existence. A desire to prove myself, to win the admiration of my peers, to show the world my worth, followed me into the maze of human theatre.

At first the power felt endless. But then the precipice of death confused that raucous, self-invested energy. What is this ambition that I have pursued? Why have I sought to pin myself to temporal things? For now the darkness spreads so thick about my eyes that I fail to see the use of life.

My father died in January 2007, just ten days before his seventieth birthday. The door opened by his death, and through which I was obliged to walk, slammed shut behind me, never to be opened again. The world was different afterwards. The one whom I had sought to please had disappeared. The ego stumbled. The green shoot withered on its stalk. Those who show us the beauty of life retain a portion of  our happiness, for we can only miss them when they’ve gone.

The ego whispers why? Why bother carrying on? Why bother wanting things? Yet carry on we do. The numbness and the emptiness dissolve into our bloodstream. The ego grows into a different shape. What outlives us except the love we leave behind? Where does the ego feature in this story? Surely even great deeds must pale before memories of love? My father did some great things with his life. But when I remember him, I rarely think about those feats. What comes to mind are his innumerable acts of kindness: his primordial role of life-giver and father.

Reflecting on him, the years diminish, and I reduce to sadness once again.  Where does the ego feature in this story?

I have no words
No pithy declarations
No life lessons
No drums or whistles
Not even disbelief;
I have only this hurt
That holds tomorrow’s suns