THE WITCH, THE BULLET, AND THE CIGARETTE.

I’m listening to ColdPlay’s Viva la Vida as I write this and let me tell you, the song fits. I am a sick kind of happy. Considering the fact that I gave a chunk of my heart to the friend of my heart who gave both his heart and the chunk of mine willingly to the wicked witch of the West who wanted his heart and so now a part of me is stuck to the very wicked witch of the West who has my heart together with his heart and my gaaaaaaad I want it back… that chunk of me.

But that isn’t why I’m here today.

Today, I want to ramble about the concept of life.
I told a friend of mine last week that if ever one of his lungs got damaged from all the smoking he does and he needed a new lung, that I would give him mine. Dang it! I’m a butcher!

Anyways, he thought it pretty strange, that I would say that. Now, apart from the fact that what I generally meant was that I cared about him, I would really give up a lung for him if he needed it. I would give my life even and very honestly take a bullet for him. Aye.

Why?
Because he is my friend and I absofuckinglutely love him.
You have to understand that I don’t bandy the word “friend” around easily. I have few friends and many acquaintances. When I meet a person, I unfurl my mental feelers. I’ll sit in a corner and let my tentacles rove over the person. They’ll touch, rub, prod… feel for the essence of the person. Then they transfer the essence of the person up and along my veins to my soul. And if it, my soul I mean, if it certifies the essence to be acceptable, boom! You’re accepted. It probably maybe accepts a person or two a year but when it happens, it is infinite. It is real. It is pure, and it is forever. It is why I would take a bullet for the one whom my heart calls friend and loves. It becomes easy, then.

BUT

Still… no matter.

It would seem as if I am careless with my life. Offering up lungs and spare body parts where I may. But nay. The onus is on what my actual definition of life is.
Life for me is not in my breathing. No. I could take up tons of oxygen gas a year and still be dead. Is the fat lady in my head alive? Is my soul in a warm environment? Is there music and wine and books and my definition of love? Am I happy? Is my internal equilibrium on point?
If the answers to the questions above are yes, then it means that I am living. That I am alive. And if perchance I am living everyday according to my definition of life, then I have probably lived longer than anyone alive. What, with all the fake living around, I think that I have even lived longer than everyone else. Because I am ME everyday and I always do what I want. Anything to keep the fat lady happy and my soul warm.

So you see, the giving up of my oxygen life for another whom I love means nothing to me. I can and will do it. Because I have truly lived and so dying, according to the definition of everyone, will actually be as if I were going to sleep. To finally rest, and let another take the stage. To give them a part of me that they can carry with them for as long as they breathe. And if we meet in Valhalla, I’ll be the lady beside Odin, stroking his beard, letting Freya give me the evil stare. BOO-yah.

So tell me… how do you define life?
Would you “go to sleep” so that the one you love can “wake”?
And wait, did I mention that in my mind’s eye, I always see myself holding a cigarette. Like, the mental version of me smokes. I don’t do it in real life but man oh man I sure do roll up my sleeves and dig right in, in my head.

Can anyone understand that?

Ahhhh, whatever!