Supreme Sleep
The routine demands of life consume
me. I clean my body, stretch tired muscles
and prepare for a day of competition and
constant combat in seeking out whatever
scraps of food others have thrown away.
My tale is one of lifetimes too long and
wearisome to tell, but this I can say: My
humanity slipped from me as I walked through
life dumb and unaware. I will admit to you
that once I was addicted to the fault of
feeling superior to other forms of living
beings. Now, having felt the pain of pride,
my soul is free of countless conceits. Even
now, though wracked by mange, body sores,
parasites and a host of unattended ailments
I am at peace, for I am immune to the
diseases of the soul from which you who read
this suffer.
I have been lying on the
shoulder of this dusty road throughout the
night. The unadorned feet of men and women
pass by. Their feet are swollen and cracked.
Water, soil and sun have callused and
hardened their soles.
This day, as
did every day, began with the cackles of
chickens making their way to the coop door.
The air was filled with the smoke scent of
burning wood and charcoal. Sapor approached
the coop carrying a pail, its contents of grain
ground to a nourishing but not very
palatable powder.
Such an ordinary
man this chicken-keeper Sapor. His humility
and kindness were legendary in this village
of Attasri, yet one could see in him the
capacity for cruelty that one sees in all
men.
Nosing the earth where some
grain had fallen the day before, I was
startled to come upon the sharply etched
face of the old weather-beaten man staring
at me. I expected a threatening gesture. I
froze, then lowered my head and arched my
brows into a look of helplessness and
submission. He smiled, accentuating the
vertical lines etched in his hollow cheeks.
"You are either very brave or very
stupid little one, or perhaps your hunger
drives you," he said softly as he threw some
grain in front of me.
It was my way
to be daring, to take chances to live out
this miserable existence. Others fear the
risk and in the end are overcome by the
stupor of hunger— too weak to acknowledge
their folly and the wisdom that sustenance
is life.
I ate what Sapor had thrown
to me and cautiously walked toward him as he
put down his pail and held out a handful of
grain. I ate as he began to stroked my neck
and back.
I couldn’t breathe; I was
choking. His hand had closed on my neck. I
panicked then jerked and contorted my body
in all directions, desperately trying to
escape. He pressed with the strength of both
hands. I bared my fangs. What I had intended
to be a blood-curdling snarl was instead a
feeble yelp. Sapor’s eyes were wide and
vacant, his face somewhere between a grimace
and a grin.
There was darkness now as
there was before—and as there will be again.
Memories, reality, consciousness,
unconsciousness. I last remember my body
going limp.
Let my bleached bones
waste in the Sun
Let my carcass replenish
the Earth
My Soul sings its song of
Release
I am nearing the Supreme Sleep
of
Nothingness
Stephen Landau
Khukhan and Bangkok, Thailand, 1969-1970