149: At least a sense of being
by Danny James
The speck that is your life, soon enough will disappear. And you must laugh at this, now. It’s only perfect. Right into the glaring vacancy of space thrust your unoffended frailty. Whole and from the lovingly riotous kernel of your infinitesimal being. And broiling your chemistry to the plenitude of amusement, burst open to the throes of raining hilarity, with every fibre electrified to a poise in expressions of your overjoy, dance a maddening dance. Flail a distort of atmosphere, dodging comets and hopping orbits, stomp a crack in the cosmos floor and rupture the very fabric of this realms walls. May the ruckus convulse into wave upon sublime wave of your significance sent rolling out over an ocean of stars and hush, collecting and collapsing them in thunderous pops and whips heard a thousand eons after as murmurs of distant crashed-upon celestial midnight shores. Lighter than an eyelash on your cheek or a spirits farewell kiss, that snowflake on your lip, – the glimpse of a streak you think you saw of a star might have fallen; a bump, some shudder the consciousness felt, that stirred the dust settled on inquisitiveness, and bothers the unguarded hours of sleep, echoing into the abyss and hollow of unfinished dreams to no one – ‘What was that?’
Thus seems the night as day, the globe perennially ablaze soaked fair by lamp shade. It was all you! the jolly frolicking fiend in the moon, can children see. And laugh you must, is all that’s good. The running smile kind that thins the air and bounds into howl. Let the planets tremble on their quiet line, of levity pitch, disintegrating satellites and muffling the shrieks and wails of the Banshee into the finest whisper of peace across a cloud-cast plain. To what melodies you hear; chime of the angels, the drum of colliding debris or chorus o’ groaning spheres, – though forever will quit of thee, – Keep on thy immortal rhythm. They will know enough but you will feel all can felt be, spanning a tiny entirety in a blink of histories across the great warped gulf of this nothing place. May struck, even the Sun look twice from its throne, the flicker that was you, somehow something still.
This, or you might be gone already.