The bud of the apple is desire, the down-falling gold,
The catbird’s gobble in the morning half-awake
These are real only if I make them so. Whistle
For me, grow green for me and, as you whistle and grow green,
Intangible arrows quiver and stick in the skin
And I taste at the root of the tongue the unreal of what is real.
Are the senses intangible things? Sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste. I wouldn’t want to lose any of those things. Imagine not being able to smell the coffee brewing in the morning! Not being able to see that lovely brown liquid dripping into the pot, hear the coffee maker gurgle, feel the warm wrap of your hands around the mug, the dark rich taste in your mouth. Inconceivable.
I would not want to lose my ability to love, hate, worry, imagine and dream. I suppose that’s just another round-about way of saying I don’t want to lose my mind, such as it is. It’s like an old reliable car; not the fastest thing out there, but it eventually gets me where I want to go.
I would not want to lose the state of being loved, even if it finally comes down to only one person in the world who feels that way – just one would be enough to keep me going.
And if I lost my senses, my mind, and loving contact with other life forms, I suppose the next thing to go would be my will to live. So bump that one up there to the top of the list. If that’s gone, all the rest is moot.