By: Denny T.
I sense a small distinction. It has a peculiar softness or fragrance I’ve never known before. I reach for it.
Little pockets of consciousness open their eyes simultaneously. They look around and see me cradling them with cupped hands. Curiosity. Something else that I never knew existed.
I’ve known everything; there has been nothing foreign of just “me”. What is this then?
Quarks fly. A swirl of particles illuminate the eternal light, drifting. I watch as protons, neutrons and electrons form blossoms of matter. I examine each blossom carefully, noting that I could signal for their movements. With knowledge of this, I paint a defiant scene of petals before the oblivion beyond. Each little piece of matter was a note that echoed against a silent backdrop. If what I heard resembled a harmony, then I never wanted it to end. The thing is, I couldn’t create this masterpiece. I will simply conduct this melody until the echoes fade out and everything dims again.
Once microscopic pinpricks form shining luminescence that seem to be as alive as I. They laugh, cry, dance inside my vision. I was in the center of the action, the joy of consciousness. That moment I did not care as I sang along. Our radiance illuminated limits and crossed boundaries.
I sit on the edge of existence. I just don’t feel the same when I glance up to see lights. Many a millenia might have passed since their creation, but whenever I gaze upon their glow another wave of curiosity crashes onto the expanse that is my mind. So despite the fact that I am still seated on the threshold of existence, I lie back and observe what I can grasp before time runs dry and I become alone once more.
Life. So delicate yet so resilient in its struggle to live. Something that we share is a purpose. I was meant to be perfect, while life should continue to improve its imperfections.
There is a great tree that grows from the deepest abyss. It grows and grows despite the darkness, branches reaching towards a pinprick of light above. Eons later, once the tree has withered, the first blossom reaches the light. But once the ancient dead tree collapses, everything will sink. I’ll be alone again.
What use is there in manipulating time when the universe will still end? We can only exist within two absolutes. One Beginning. One End. Infinite possibility between. I cannot conceive past this. The thing is, I’m not a creator. I’m only a spectator, or, at most, a manipulator.
It is too early to wait for the end. I can slow time. Decimate it, even, but I can’t stop it. I can’t destroy it. So I guess I’ll spend an eternity waiting for this petal to fall. Because the next eternity I won’t be here.