Title: Finite Creatures
Time sits, stretching her limbs, elongating over these hot summer days. Until her joints crackle in their sockets, air pockets stale from her presence. She is of always; she is of this moment as she is of any other. This is no more new or different or strange to her. These cars not any more impressive than the horse-carriages were or the space-ships will be. She moves and it all goes on, moves on, because of her; the traffic winding down the road; the temperature increasing; the growing sleepiness of boys in the backseat; the steady drip of petrol from the cracked tank.
She sits beside this little car, its metal burning hot. It’s smaller than most of her quarries, but she does as she will. She needs no justification; she is as big and as small as she wishes to be. She may or may not have a secret though. It’s a secret you may know if ever watched her closely, held her precious, and lamented her swift departure. She slips into these boys minds, delves into their dreams, spooling each one into its own eternity.
She is not linear. She is not bound by one reality. She passes differently through every mind’s eye. The air is shimmering. Temperature is rising. There’s a pool of petrol waiting for a spark. All she needs do is do as she does; carry on. This car and these boys will cease, as billions before do, as billions do to come.
She stops.
She has a secret.
*
She was here first, she swept over space and darkness. She waits, she always waits. She’s still in that darkness of before, she’s still in the burning bright solar collision to come, and she’s in this moment with a car on a hot dusty road.
She birthed constructs into the world, manifestations that she grew and that grew with her. They played with each other well. They had many incarnations, strewn upon her being, resting within her womb. Their most famous of course being the four horsemen.
They changed and ended and were reborn to her again, always different, transmuted as beings of the world they belonged to. So they were of that world. She is of no world.
But these children are of her. Their newest forms.
*
They always leave her too soon. She knows every version of them that is, was and will be. It’s not enough.
She’s tired.
They have always been so young.
Now. Now they are too young.
She can’t pause here forever.
But what if she did…
*
She knows that she doesn’t. She is of the always. She is in the after now even as she is here.
She wills their dreams inside their dreams, not just longer as dreams oft are.
She fills their heads with a million tiny eternities. And readies to birth them anew.
She carries on.
She sits beside this little car, its metal burning hot. It’s smaller than most of her quarries, but she does as she will. She needs no justification; she is as big and as small as she wishes to be. She may or may not have a secret though. It’s a secret you may know if ever watched her closely, held her precious, and lamented her swift departure. She slips into these boys minds, delves into their dreams, spooling each one into its own eternity.
She is not linear. She is not bound by one reality. She passes differently through every mind’s eye. The air is shimmering. Temperature is rising. There’s a pool of petrol waiting for a spark. All she needs do is do as she does; carry on. This car and these boys will cease, as billions before do, as billions do to come.
She stops.
She has a secret.
*
She was here first, she swept over space and darkness. She waits, she always waits. She’s still in that darkness of before, she’s still in the burning bright solar collision to come, and she’s in this moment with a car on a hot dusty road.
She birthed constructs into the world, manifestations that she grew and that grew with her. They played with each other well. They had many incarnations, strewn upon her being, resting within her womb. Their most famous of course being the four horsemen.
They changed and ended and were reborn to her again, always different, transmuted as beings of the world they belonged to. So they were of that world. She is of no world.
But these children are of her. Their newest forms.
*
They always leave her too soon. She knows every version of them that is, was and will be. It’s not enough.
She’s tired.
They have always been so young.
Now. Now they are too young.
She can’t pause here forever.
But what if she did…
*
She knows that she doesn’t. She is of the always. She is in the after now even as she is here.
She wills their dreams inside their dreams, not just longer as dreams oft are.
She fills their heads with a million tiny eternities. And readies to birth them anew.
She carries on.