The sun disappearing from sight last night reminded me that all long, warm, bright things come to an end. Also, so do all short, cold, and dark things. Every cycle spins on itself and every circle is concentric when we get close enough in and/or far enough out.
The universe is expanding against an edge we cannot yet determine. I wonder what we will find, if we do. Perhaps universes on end, expanding and collapsing so quickly they appear to be some kind of edge. An event horizon where the infinite variations on a possibility are born and die.
I am constantly amazed at how reality is the same, even when folded in on itself. Like origami that retains its shape. Dimensions are the lines by which we bend, again and again. Cranes and hearts and elephants folded smaller and smaller until we reach the 0th dimension and there is no more compression and only expansion. Then, we loop around and begin again.
Every growth and every break, a piece of the whole in the exact same way. Only human perspective gives us the false illusion of the grave importance of the 4th.
Death. It is no coincidence, I think, that the number of our failure to see beyond our chronological experiences is the number of the end of things. Because when our eyes fail to see and our minds fail to reach and our hearts fail to beat in rhythm with the vibrations of the rest of the universe — we might as well be extinct.
It is only a matter of time.
A constant theme of mine.
In writing. In progress. In success. In betterment of my off-rhythm heart. In death.
I am only bating breath and biding time. Bidding against my self-loathing at every turn.
Will I win?
How to answer if we are each our worse enemy and closest friend?
Will we win is a matter of perspective.
What do you want and will reality yield to it?
I am as yet unsure, but I think I see the gears turning. Perhaps that turn is a yield. Perhaps it is a long slow curve, up or downward. Perhaps it is only round, round, round again.
Where it stops, no-one knows.