we all die alone

i have this scene imprinted in my memory
from the movie donnie darko. an old woman
stands by her mailbox on a duskfilled street.
she's been waiting there all day.
donnie stops to talk to her because
she's whispering to no one. when he bends
ear to mouth she grabs his collar
and what she says is we all die alone.

not that i didn't know that before.
in that movie though, i felt it.
that's the kind of art i like to witness.
the kind where one feels the source
and recognises it as their own.

of course i'd love to produce that.
i'm an artist. but so are you, so are you.
why must you categorize me as different
because i see things and try to recreate them.

you do the same, with ritual and chasing
novelty. the polaroid, the digital validation.
see, i saw this, did you see what i saw, here, look
taste this recipe, smell these flowers, admire
my fine children, my stellar physique, my gift of god.

so. we all die alone. but the living it seems
must be shared. what we miss most is the terry cloth
bathrobe around the steel monkey momma.
sure we're used to it. we die. alone.
how many times we become a pheonix
is up to us, until we become less than white
noise and big as the void.