Lemmonade In Order Now As Explained

I am almost 63 now, feeling much like I was at 30, 40 and so on, as if the body of a car ages and the transmission still hums along, unseen, unnoticed, still running in the way it  was when new. I prepare for my dying in several ways, non of which are helpful, for preparation is useless when the moment arrives. Aimlessly, I go further, repeating over and over the character nuances I have learned on levels of awareness unknown to myself. I am a top sent into motion by an unknown hand. I cannot stop. I just am an energizer bunny, a wind-up clown. What mastery in life? We are perfecters of the inept. Ineptitude rules. I look at myself in the mirror, grey and greying, pudgy wattles, male bags beneath my eyes, and right before me I have aged all the while lookingt o see if I am aging. Sorely hilarious, much like watching my skin suntan. I am ruled, governed, and Dr. Philed –conditioned, Krishnamurti would say, without my knowing it.

There is less time now. And I cannot really change anything even if I chose to — it isn’t that my life is out of control — it has been — it is that I’ve never had control of it to begin with (nor you). I don’t know what fire is because I don’t know what anything really is. Do you, fellow transient?

I feel at times that with only a slight push I could go mad and never retrieve what sense of reality I have now, shaky as it fundamentally is. Real madness is to sense that the All we experience is not really all there is; that we are bumblers in time and time bumblers, extras in crowd scenes directed by others. I can laugh at my fellow human bumblers when they exert control, or are decisive, or like Dr. Phil and Wayne Dyer are Emersonian bullies — and fools. Within their own orbits they play as gods. When you spot Oprah, — Jabba the Hutt, splayed out on a sofa –isn’t there a sense about her of an opulent fat cat, too lazy to peel her own grape. Her self-comfortableness appalls, scrapes away the corneas of my eyes.

The days go by so fast and as I try to “order” them, the more I realize it is a game that I play — what’s up or down takes on importance, for sanity’s sake — but a deeper part of me sees the play I am in and its futility, yet I persist, like all of us, in the game. Foolishly, I look for truths to grasp on to — I have found none, except embellishments I like, perhaps a good watch or a piece of art. When I have something to hold on to as I near my end, it bursts within my avid hands.