Fissures

by practicalspactical

The strange but fateful choice of Life (which of course is only the universe aware of itself) to be not one but many, myriads, endless, all the universe, secret pearls or fairy foam encapsulated, always the one great divine essence, always the same one miracle, but divided and divided until finally indivisible and individual, always cut off from the universe behind the other’s eyes, a mystery, a lacuna, a place not seen, though described like the image of a solar eclipse in a cardboard box in the foyer of my childhood rowhome which happened somewhere else in this universe as our small rock earthbit swings around the galaxy like God’s own calliope. The other, which cries out I am, I am too, I am like you – and makes the confident all-seeing who in his hubris takes the lacuna for absence rather than occlusion pause –

Life chose this path; somehow, somewhen, somewhere else, when Life still swam through dreamless deeps, it chose to be not one but many and in doing so a single miracle, a single cruce of oil, is even now burning still, still now, still becoming, being, burning – even as our little lights wink out every now and then waiting quiet to be summoned back to sing dreams to some other sleeper.

I see you.