It truly feels as if I can hear it.
Each uniquely designed hourglass grain
as it tumbles from its nest of potential
through the birth canal of this very moment.
Hear it as it sings through the
Swan diving towards imminent oblivion
and striking the pile of dead memory
Like a kind of existential water torture.
I can feel the tremors of time as each second splashes
onto the corpses of its kin.
One might think it’s knowledge enough to fuel
the haste of an uncertain tomorrow.
But the reverberations I feel
from each mote of dust
crashing into the history of the moment
only serve to hold me in place,
glue me to my seat,
and shake my legs when I attempt
to stand up.
Some might say it’s a fear of death.
I say it’s a fear of life.
Of standing in the light of all possible creation
and trying not to squint.
It blinds with such an intensity
that it burns away all concern
for anything outside of conscious choice.
A blessing of intention, to be sure,
but also a tragic reality to know
that you can never truly walk through the fields of infinity,
but must instead pluck a single slice of grass,
sit in a comfortable position,
and stare at the green blade
until you can see the very face