They say this is the end. Who they is nobody knows, but everybody knows they say this is the end. So I’m on a bus going south from Portland to Eugene in Oregon, the strange lady of states where Don’t tread on me rifles neighbor up to eco anarchist blues. This is the end. It’s chaos. It’s over. The dream is dead.
I know something about death. A year ago I was very carefully trying to dance old lady death into my veins by way of a purposeful overdose. I had it all figured out. I was going to take 250 pills. They were very toxic. This would do it. This would be my end.
Now here I am, riding the bus south through Oregon with endless skies heralding my flight.
People don’t understand death. Death doesn’t want you. Death is just a cabbie looking to uber you to your next manifestation. There’s no such thing as death. You get born all over again. In fact you probably just blurred onto earth, so you’ll just blur somewhere else.
This material life is just a puppet show. The real you is not the puppet, it’s the puppeteer. You’re the puppeteer when you dream, did you know that? You put down the puppet every night and the puppeteer’s union gets together to throw back a couple or whatever puppeteers do.
This ain’t no end. It’s just change. So I’m riding that bus. The sun is glowing as it has been doing for just about ever. This is not the end.