Death Crushes Us Like A Bug

My pomo addition to kinder, gentler Death cards. The beautiful butterfly spreads its wings, and nothing bad will ever happen to it, or to you. Uh-huh.

This is precisely what it is like as the Universe forecloses on the loan of its particles to us. It isn’t however such a personal, even pragmatic working as all that, since there is just the effect of the gigantic moving and changing cosmos, unconsciously terminating us in its wake, just we would unintentionally crush a bug.

To the bug, the motives, or the lack of them, of the crusher, are entirely irrelevant.

There is an occult myth of life, and death, which says it is a journey with a destination and a point. Further, the Easternized occultists, even in the West, view the cycling of life and death as the real journey, as if a spirit were on an eternal vacation, obtaining as many memories as possible, and hoping by this to come to a clearer understanding of the world it is flitting through, and the point of being here. That point, weirdly, is eventually explained as a liberation from the need to be here, which seems a bizarre and circular arrangement.

What if, instead, the point of being here is that life is just a hell of a lot more interesting than drifting through space for billions of years as formless particles, or clumps of senseless rock? And that is really the only point. Particles aspire to life not to obtain a memory, but to obtain a fucking break from the crushing boredom of being unalive, or dead.

Death then is not merely a process of unraveling something, but a stifling condition of most everything in the Universe, which to the living surely seems like a supreme punishment. And so, to avoid it, they seek in any way possible, some salvation from what they most fear.

Now, in Tarot we have seen for many years the crafting of a crazy policy regarding the concept of death and its relationship to the Death card. The latter has been deemed so frightening by the Tarot industry, that its considerable and oppressively frightening fangs have been pulled, its claws removed, and it is now very safe to be left laying around the house or the card reading. Nobody is going to be terrified. It’s just about “transformation”, and everybody likes transformation—because it sounds like “metamorphosis”, or turning into a butterfly. And a butterfly is after all one of the prettier and least threatening forms of life. The bit about how short its life is—well—at least in contemporary Tarot decks the fine print is written by hack marketers, and it isn’t so grim-sounding. Of course it isn’t so honest either.

Life is very short. It takes way too long to figure it out even a little, and by that time you're usually too old for the wisdom to do you much good. This is why so many old people are so damned cranky. Between physical impairment, the depression of knowing each day may be their last, and the happy thoughts they get seeing all the people who will bury them, and who will eventually forget they ever existed, the elderly are not generally having a good time.

But they are way luckier than the poor saps, you know like you, who haven't figured out much of anything, who are happy-go-lucky nincompoops, who gaily leap off a cliff only to find out you're actually not the Fool of the Tarot deck, but instead one of the hapless myriad plummeting from the top of the Tower.

You don't even have to die for Death to kill you, utterly and miserably. You just need a Deadly dose of really bad luck, whose changing or transformative energy is primarily poisonous. The scorpion doesn't sting you because he doesn't like you. It's just his nature.

And you don't die because you want to. It's just your nature, and the only way out.