On Monday I was to the moon, astronautical, on another planet, seated in the heavenlies, exulting — done! 

“And how does it feel, my friend?” they ask when they see me. 

They ask as if they can’t help themselves — their peeping anxiety showing like a young girl’s slip — and yet the question is ancient, worried and frankly, morbidly voyeuristic. 

They ask as if asking someone how it feels to be dead.

I guess it’s really the perpetual human issue of, “How does it feel to be undead? 

“How does it feel to be finished off but not, over-ed but still, no longer required yet ‘Of course!’” 

I say, “It feels like being a kid again, but you have money — honey!”

“It feels free!”

What does that even mean?

I don’t tell them. 

I’ll tell you. 

Don’t tell.

It’s freedom from their expectations — and their judgements.

To be honest, for years, I was their trick dog, their performing cat, their circus elephant. I was ragman, waterman, checker, custodian, nurse, magician, shaman. I was their chief-beef and king-belief. 

I’m telling you in secret my friend, it is strange thing to be a slave yelling, “Let’s go there!” 

It was downright weird to be an untouchable crying, “You’re so near!” and “Over here!” and “Have no fear!” “Come with me dear.” 

Oh you and me! 

We were tossed together like trash into a dumpster, but I led us out of that bin of stinking rubbish, through the sea and straight into freakin’ Eden!

We became plane-crash friends; survivors, the chosen. We will be forever bonded by our shared neo-brio-narrative — the heroic, comedic fantastic strategic. 

We were raggedy foundlings along for someone else’s ride, mere hirelings, unknown mirelings and yet in the end we summited, waved, took pictures and were  — glorious us! 

We had it all Saul, Raul, Paul!

Now do this.

Let me go. 

I let you go.

My lovelies, my pretties, my uglies, you beasts!  

I free you; free me! 

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