Cogitus Rex

 https://www.bustle.com/p/what-does-it-feel-like-to-die-heres-what-you-can-expect-based-on-research-accounts-2992369

  Insight on epistemology:  one never can be certain of knowledge  in that it is renewable, expanding and questioning by nature. Feelings are experienced,  so they transcend the known and become manifest as being.  To close the circle, only true knowledge is of how we feel.  

   In cold space, meaning dark space, where no light shines... In that space, comets are frozen, they show no tail. Despite the speed of their flight through the universe, no friction festoons their passing with icy particles, as they tumble and yaw through the jet black void. Imagine how they feel, so cold, frozen as hard as rock tumbling through emptiness,  not knowing where they come from. We all breathe comet air.

 "The smell of burnt paper. The silence of the sitting bird. The leaf swaying. Things hold their form, but they lose them too. Re(again)peat, which like moss grows where undisturbed, things hold there, form, but they lose them to... I look out the window and no one appears. I see my reflection in the mirror and wonder why light bothers. Dust fills the air in applause of some wind. Dirt fills the pots, grease fills the pans... a fork in the road, a knife in the wrong hands. We mean to fill the empty spaces, smiling faces and lies that sometimes tell truths we wish not to acknowledge. Like urban pigeons who lay eggs on ledges where the winds can blow them away... Our faces slammed by a chattering book. Things hold their form, but they lose them too. Re(again)peat, which like moss grows where undisturbed, things hold there, form, but they lose them to..."

(A carcass on the beach.) (Swarmed by flies)(Hide baking in the sun) (Rancid, putrid)( it fills the air with the  perfume of death, work of decay) (insulting my nostrils and sinus) (as certain of itself as death can be) (and as the waves reach higher) (they float the mass, rotting) (each crest an exaltation, each trough a depression) (driving the flies) (as one dark cloud) (and bearing the body, as lictors) (out past the breakers) (returning the dead thing to the sea.)

...sitting here typing my emotions onto this virtual page as if the feelings will  either disappear in this torrent of words or become permanent by having been revealed and published, publicized, civilized, brought out into daylight...grappling with grief again, not the heavy sadness but the seriously numbing variety that reveals the acceptance of the tragic as just the new norm of the new rhythm of a new quotidian reality. Acceptance is good. It is factual, true, it reveals how things are and spotlights what we face in desire; what we want to be and what cannot be. The gulf between feeling and knowledge. The winds and storms of emotion rage above the solid landscape below. I walk in the landscape, being a farmer and not a bird. But my emotions would gladly wing away to her soul's side and give up this mantle, while my body in his sad realism will keep wandering the paths that lead to work and the loss of self that will mask her absence...