To trudge home, the long night –
Ah, there’s the cat anyway, fighting her own phantoms
while you, calling out from across space-time
reverberating philosophies from blurred photocopies and do-it-yourself encyclopedias.
Shatter the silence with obscure riffs and refrains,
drain the bottles, smoke the cartons,
close the bathroom door and set yourself on fire.
Cognitive mapping is a delicate task.
You stumble and you scream, and there are
thousands of lines of code scrolling in front of you: that is the Future.
That is also the ghost of a chance. Your temporal doppelgänger is nothing but
a simulacrum. You parse your life and you disappear
in a most spectacular flash of blinding light,
its spectrum slashed into chapters,
all its properties coalescing into an incoherent piece of a vague remembrance.
Anything and everything is summed up by a memorial service,
or a body consumed by flames. And you can ask and ask
questions that will never be answered in your lifetime. Asking is a step towards
the infinite, but it is also a foray into the realm of insanity –
a horrifying schematic
of schisms and appropriations, of differences between
sentience and animation. Suspend your judgment,
everything will be as it was. Behold! the cosmos –
and your last, greatest chance to be something infinitely greater than yourself.
Hear the whistle, come back to bed. No amount of finger pointing is sufficient
to evoke once again a semblance of a life. Come now to the fires
of the future, all the arrows painted on the soil point to it
like glowing embers in an antediluvian Night.
The universe will be finite eventually, when it starts contracting unto itself –
all will unfold in reverse, until the crunch that signals
the reboot of the cycle. All is all, but then we’ll all be cosmic dust
strewn into the black vastness of space. All will be meaningless,
all our memories will spin further and further into the Void. This red shift
eventually ends to the black hole of nostalgia, and while
we search for each other in between unimaginable parsecs of Space,
all is still. The stars are calling out from across the reach, but in time,
memory turns into legend, then legend turns into myth, and soon
even myth itself cannot escape the clutches of Forgetting.
What of the Rogue? While the Other is cloaked in the comfort of its own,
the shadows of a thousand drunken nights resound. Many have come,
but many have left you changed but still solitary in the spectacle of fleeting laughter.
Another epiphany! And yet the realization is hollow, and it all comes back to the conclusion that in the end, we are all alone –
fighting the phantoms we have created, drowning in the Poison of our consolation.
Go home, the long walk ahead is nothing compared to the wall of silence waiting in the familiar safety of domesticity.
*First draft. Rough. To be revised in the coming days.