"Any life, no matter how long and complex it may be, is made up of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."

I’ve become a creature of habit…the last thing I’d ever hoped to become. Habits scare me, routines scare me, certain levels of security scare me. So, amidst my nightly walk I strolled through the cemetery. For what purpose I have no clue. To exhume the spirit of some long lost bushido-starved samurai, to further prove my existence in contrast to those that merely exist as memories, yellowed photographs in someone’s scrapbook, to give myself a startle, it still remains unclear. By day the tombstones reflect the Japanese art of tradition and reverence, by night they scare the fuck outta me. Every time a car passed I ducked, so as to blend in with the dead. But I don’t want to blend in with the dead. In life we are a name, a face, a personality, in death, merely a number. An etching on a moss-covered, forgotten shrine, overgrown by the dominant patches of weeds and occasional wildflowers. You can’t help but wonder what the lives of the dead must have once been like, and maybe I was hoping to catch some glimpse into the life of someone else, one who maybe had no one else to share it with, or in death was more lonely than the living could ever fear to be. Needless to say, no spirits spoke to me, and I’m relieved…I’ve got enough problems. At times I find myself so bored I’ll talk to people I know, but who aren’t there…especially my grandmother. It’s odd that I talk to her more post-mortem than I did when she was alive. Don’t worry, she doesn’t talk back, I’m not that insane, but I’m curious as to how my she lived. I knew so little of her, other than she herself was a creature of habit. She wore heels to vacuum the house, never took off her pearls, drank Early Times every afternoon at 5, filled the role of wealthy housewife and distant mother and always gave the same birthday gift…an inch of pearls. When I was growing up I always wondered why every member of my family would laugh at the stupidly ridiculous antics of my brother and I, yet she never cracked. There was always some shield deflecting her emotions, or maybe she had none. I used to feel the same way, but I later came to realize hers was genetic. Depression runs in my family and I honestly hope I can live a life that will constantly outrun my “fate” of an eventually emotionally devoid presence at the dinner table. It may be crazy, but maybe simply realizing that it could become a reality I will be more aware of when the signs begin to show, so as to run like hell. If you ever find I’ve lost my ability to be me and instead have been replaced by a zombie, call my shrink.