Garden of Innocence
We are black holes. Deep and silent, wrapping ourselves in this orgiastic state of consumption. We need, take, develop, fathom, believe. We claw restlessly at experience after experience, pulling at one another, seeking what they seek simply because they seek it. We are missiles. There must have been a time when we were stars, bright stars. Could vibrate, radiate, combust, spew forth. The space around us crackled with our presence, and we could barely contain ourselves, flinging ourselves out towards the worlds with great trails of fire. We, the wielders of angelic swords, keepers of the garden, defenders of an ideal we had yet to understand. Our state of mind; vibrant, imperfect, unyielding.
Does a star know its death? Is there a bang? A flash? A moment of brilliance which condemns every other moment to be a blasphemy of life, a sin of potential. Then the darkness? Or is there the blood red glow as the star breaks itself apart? How could we know when suddenly everything went black, when one by one the stars around us blinked out. Then the pulling. The ripping and tearing as we try to gain what we feel is owed, ‘there must be something to take away from all of this,’ some lesson from the moments, a deeper meaning to which we plunge into our very selves, seeking.
Some become white dwarfs, the compression of life. Those who grip at the things around them, layers upon layers of their lives, mashing it all tighter. You see them. The ones from back home that will never leave. Same job, same friends, same significant other. Their faces’ dense, pearly teeth grinding to powder, deep lines, dull eyes of the blind. These the people of the nonpeople, the lumping of sad light to which, we of the black holes, gather to feast. To gorge on the sadness, the hardness of life, all of which we have never known. The tales from home about “whose pregnant!,” “he does what drug?,” “I can’t believe she would kill herself.” They are unmovable, the white dwarfs, far to dense to be dragged in, so we gather just beyond where the light ends sipping and taking down notes. We remind ourselves we aren’t them. We grin and give out high fives.
Still others, the neutral stars, whom we rest our weariness upon, the constants of our lives, who accelerate all matter around them, sends it soaring off into the dark. They pulsate with radiation to mutate, to change us. They are the Hitlers, the MLKs. They radiate, we dream.
We are anti-matter. We are the abominations, the death of nature, the norm. Spilling ourselves over the land, desperate to be rid of it all, to negate our existence. With experience after experience we purge the land of us. We know what we must do, there really is nothing else. We are truth in a world that has no room for questions. Of course we try and maintain stasis, if we weren’t so damn tired. I know we could do it if we weren’t so damn tired.
I am tired. Too tired to believe I am a star, or even a single photon. I do pray, of course I pray. I pray that I am a star. A bright star, the brightest of stars. A constellation, magnificent to the imagination, splendor unhindered by millions, no billions of miles. I am the tiger in the sky. Children point and gasp when they finally have the eyes to see me, I will be the guardian of their sleep. Sitting by the window watching the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest, the beat of their hearts, to see fire whips merge out of dreams. Maybe I am a simple photon left of the supernova, a spaceship. I’ve been hurtling through space at speeds only an Einstein could come up with. Bouncing of the moon I will streak in through the window to make my graceful landing on soft eye lashes. Never will I tell them, never give away the secret. My little secret. That I am really there to watch them, to gather by the light. To wait in silence for the supernova, that spark which will send me off again, to new worlds, new places. Or will I be rubbed out by tiny fists in the morning?
More and more I know what I am, what we are. The darkness, we are children’s fears; fears of lose, fears of regret. Perhaps we are space itself, the calm after the storm. The deep echoing of life. Or wormholes. Are we wormholes? Changing locations, appearing only to disappear, is that not what we do? We move about, take in all we can of a place, search for new light. We take tours, go on road trips, go to new parties, try new drugs. We are heat seeking missiles, we cost millions. Yet people are scrambling for their wallets, they can’t get enough of us, of the explosions, the tragedy behind each grand flash. “Now this is drama” they will scream from big leather chairs, spilling their popcorn all over themselves, crying, and puking on the ride back home.
Each of us firecrackers of the universe, sent up to look for God who is so proud when we finally bust at the peek of our flight. We scream to him. “Look how far I went, how bright my end!” Then the grand finale, the ohh and ahh, the crowd will take to their cars believe God must have seen the finale, being as grand as it was. No one will stick the deserted parking lot, no one will wait around to see God picking up empty beer cans and fading glow sticks. He will be grinning and laughing at the thought of recycling.
Does a star know its death? Is there a bang? A flash? A moment of brilliance which condemns every other moment to be a blasphemy of life, a sin of potential. Then the darkness? Or is there the blood red glow as the star breaks itself apart? How could we know when suddenly everything went black, when one by one the stars around us blinked out. Then the pulling. The ripping and tearing as we try to gain what we feel is owed, ‘there must be something to take away from all of this,’ some lesson from the moments, a deeper meaning to which we plunge into our very selves, seeking.
Some become white dwarfs, the compression of life. Those who grip at the things around them, layers upon layers of their lives, mashing it all tighter. You see them. The ones from back home that will never leave. Same job, same friends, same significant other. Their faces’ dense, pearly teeth grinding to powder, deep lines, dull eyes of the blind. These the people of the nonpeople, the lumping of sad light to which, we of the black holes, gather to feast. To gorge on the sadness, the hardness of life, all of which we have never known. The tales from home about “whose pregnant!,” “he does what drug?,” “I can’t believe she would kill herself.” They are unmovable, the white dwarfs, far to dense to be dragged in, so we gather just beyond where the light ends sipping and taking down notes. We remind ourselves we aren’t them. We grin and give out high fives.
Still others, the neutral stars, whom we rest our weariness upon, the constants of our lives, who accelerate all matter around them, sends it soaring off into the dark. They pulsate with radiation to mutate, to change us. They are the Hitlers, the MLKs. They radiate, we dream.
We are anti-matter. We are the abominations, the death of nature, the norm. Spilling ourselves over the land, desperate to be rid of it all, to negate our existence. With experience after experience we purge the land of us. We know what we must do, there really is nothing else. We are truth in a world that has no room for questions. Of course we try and maintain stasis, if we weren’t so damn tired. I know we could do it if we weren’t so damn tired.
I am tired. Too tired to believe I am a star, or even a single photon. I do pray, of course I pray. I pray that I am a star. A bright star, the brightest of stars. A constellation, magnificent to the imagination, splendor unhindered by millions, no billions of miles. I am the tiger in the sky. Children point and gasp when they finally have the eyes to see me, I will be the guardian of their sleep. Sitting by the window watching the rhythmic rise and fall of their chest, the beat of their hearts, to see fire whips merge out of dreams. Maybe I am a simple photon left of the supernova, a spaceship. I’ve been hurtling through space at speeds only an Einstein could come up with. Bouncing of the moon I will streak in through the window to make my graceful landing on soft eye lashes. Never will I tell them, never give away the secret. My little secret. That I am really there to watch them, to gather by the light. To wait in silence for the supernova, that spark which will send me off again, to new worlds, new places. Or will I be rubbed out by tiny fists in the morning?
More and more I know what I am, what we are. The darkness, we are children’s fears; fears of lose, fears of regret. Perhaps we are space itself, the calm after the storm. The deep echoing of life. Or wormholes. Are we wormholes? Changing locations, appearing only to disappear, is that not what we do? We move about, take in all we can of a place, search for new light. We take tours, go on road trips, go to new parties, try new drugs. We are heat seeking missiles, we cost millions. Yet people are scrambling for their wallets, they can’t get enough of us, of the explosions, the tragedy behind each grand flash. “Now this is drama” they will scream from big leather chairs, spilling their popcorn all over themselves, crying, and puking on the ride back home.
Each of us firecrackers of the universe, sent up to look for God who is so proud when we finally bust at the peek of our flight. We scream to him. “Look how far I went, how bright my end!” Then the grand finale, the ohh and ahh, the crowd will take to their cars believe God must have seen the finale, being as grand as it was. No one will stick the deserted parking lot, no one will wait around to see God picking up empty beer cans and fading glow sticks. He will be grinning and laughing at the thought of recycling.