The Reader of Signs

“ever tried.
ever failed.
no matter.
try again.
fail again.
fail better.”

~ Samuel Beckett

On December 31, 2014, I was sideswiped by a hit and run driver. I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy reading the signs. He wasn't reading the signs. He aimed straight for me, then swerved at the last moment. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was a fatal blow. For the next two weeks I was one of the walking dead. Mortally wounded, completely unaware of my tragic fate. Such a strange word. Fate. But there it is. I'd been frozen in place reading the signs. Portents of what was about to happen, what would happen, no matter how I tried to prevent it. It felt like déjà vu.

It felt fated.

Fate? Souls? Reincarnation? I know how you probably feel about people who use those words. Believe me, I feel the same way most of the time. New age shysters out to sell you something or woefully deluded, albeit well intentioned, tree-hugging busybodies out to save your soul. Oh yes, I was skeptical, cavalier even. I scoffed at the idea. Even Nietzsche's idea of eternal recurrence seemed too hippie-crystal-metaphysical for my taste. But I am speaking of the soul here. At least, mostly, metaphorically. I'd sustained a mortal wound to my spirit.

He'd dealt the death blow before and would do it again. Will do it again.

It won't kill me. Not exactly. It is a metaphorical death and rebirth. Like the phoenix, I will rise from the ashes and be reborn. Forever changed into something new.