The Abyss
Certainty is an illusion. My generation knows such things.
The ice cube has been slipping down our back for centuries and we're no longer shocked by sensation. It's not a visceral loss, and it's not a grand awakening any longer. It's indifferent.
We don't care that god is dead. We don't care that there are no imperatives to save us from ourselves. We barely glance at the emptiness.
I have this friend who wears black like no one else I know. She is always subtly raising her eyebrows at your comments. Her smirks are rare which makes them precious, and you can never guess at her head. Her mysterious nature also makes her infinite, just like me. There is no accounting possibilities or tabulating chances of her next thought, next movement, next question. But She ran past the endless living forest beneath a completely empty sky and thought of nothing but her own tiny, racing pulse.
Couldn't we just sit here on the brink, the edge of the cliff, the top of the mountain, the shore of the sea and wonder at the expanse of the mysterious abyss?
Maybe we could sit here, nose to nose, staring into the each other's eyes, swallow the urge to giggle, and swear never to assume we know the truth of anyone, even ourselves, ever again.
The ice cube has been slipping down our back for centuries and we're no longer shocked by sensation. It's not a visceral loss, and it's not a grand awakening any longer. It's indifferent.
We don't care that god is dead. We don't care that there are no imperatives to save us from ourselves. We barely glance at the emptiness.
I have this friend who wears black like no one else I know. She is always subtly raising her eyebrows at your comments. Her smirks are rare which makes them precious, and you can never guess at her head. Her mysterious nature also makes her infinite, just like me. There is no accounting possibilities or tabulating chances of her next thought, next movement, next question. But She ran past the endless living forest beneath a completely empty sky and thought of nothing but her own tiny, racing pulse.
Couldn't we just sit here on the brink, the edge of the cliff, the top of the mountain, the shore of the sea and wonder at the expanse of the mysterious abyss?
Maybe we could sit here, nose to nose, staring into the each other's eyes, swallow the urge to giggle, and swear never to assume we know the truth of anyone, even ourselves, ever again.