What’s Past is Prolonged

I will soon enter a new chapter in my life,
the seventh plateau, a second childhood
sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans sanity.
I intend to use it as a platform, not a place for
elucidation but a stage for hallucination.
That is the correct term because with each
passing day it becomes clearer and clearer
to me that I am no longer gathering and
processing information with clarity and
perspicuity. That is not all bad mainly
because life is not reality, rather it is just
a means to an end, an illusion, without form
or substance. We blither and blather and
sometimes we lather as we fomigate about
our travails. Was it all for naught? But of
course. Life’s but a stage and we are mere
players who strut our stuff and then are
heard no more. But this time as I wiggle
and squiggle there will be no sniggling
because I will be on borrowed time,
taking up space with no rental agreement.
And then it is off to the great beyond to
a place heretofore thought of as imaginary
wherein we gather our just deserts. To be
or not to be according to the myths we heaped
upon ourselves and on others in desperation to
find purpose where there was none. It is
a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and
fury, signifying that this thing we call life
is punctuated with certainty only when it
is convenient to hide our shortcomings
from ourselves.