Nathan Josiah Liam Colwyn:
Y B?
At 3:50 in the morning, does anyone really expect that I might come up with something grandiose and profound to say? Does the lack of sleep or cup of tea dictate that I may reveal some inner truth upon this unsuspecting world?
At 3:53 in the morning, it comes as no surprise that I have nothing to add to this crude, crippled world. Crude in its wicked beauty and pure ugliness, and crippled in its unbounded possibilities and narrow determinations, of wonderful and wretched. This world, all we see and hear IS, and you want me to voice my take on it all? Breathe the morning air in and smell the perfume of the waste treatment facility, and taste the odor of blooming flowers, they yearning to exult in promiscuous fertilization by insects. Their ever varied and wonderfully detailed cups tempting the unsuspecting insects that here lies some answer, as fleeting as it might be. And for a brief second or two, the bee finds its reward and unwittingly carries the seeds of future psychological slavery for its hive's progeny. Workers and workers, all drones, smelling the promise of a new tomorrow.
Events and happenings and moments come and go, and someone sees them, or does not. And whether anyone cares is irrelevant, because they don't seem to be stopping. So my take on it all is that I have no judgement whatsoever. Woe is me that I may offend the utter chaos with suggestion of some supreme ordering force or controlling factor. God is dead, because he couldn't cope with how weird things can be. And we all go our separate ways eventually, to the dust from which we sprang, then to provide later iterations of complex proteins with the raw materials they need to thrive. Life reduced to the flow of information. And the supreme joke: that in the end, nothing knows enough to just quit and leave it all behind. Thrown rocks sink to the bottom of lakes don't know enough to be insulted by this act and rise up from the deeps. The hapless possum, who fakes not at the side of a road, knows enough to know not to care. My death comes quickly, or slowly, and what I have learned passes unto void.
A thriving village, sheltered in their hearts by gods and shamans, is assured of the volcano's wrath; they know of the god angered by their misdeeds. They pass unto void, never warning those that come after of their plight. They are: happy, knowing, feeling, reproducing endlessly. And as quickly they are: covered in layers of liquid rock by an unfeeling planetary process.
A man, destined to be downsized from his brokerage firm, chances upon a ticket upon which are printed certain random number combinations that mean something to a computer. He is randomly set for life; he need never work another day. After buying his family wonderfully entertaining, but ultimately expendible gifts of material, a random deer frightened by his headlights makes moot the winning lottery ticket. Luckily, a young progeny survives the resulting crash, only to project his fear of failure onto his own progeny, a hapless absorber of data and manifestations of complex proteins.
At 4:16, something tells me that it all means something; i just shake my head. Why bother myself with the Big Why? In the end, the Why of it all explains not the What of it all.
I sleep in sometimes very late after staying up until after four the night before. And tomorrow is Sunday, a designated rest day by a long collection of iterations of humans, which we already know to be random combinations of genetic expressions. Expressions based ultimately on the mathematical forces at work in basic particles. These sly, sneaky particles that think they can get away with changing to others or being able to be divided still further. Here I am!... and here I am no longer; all in the space of no time. But this afternoon, I could stare at the newest leaf of a creeping vine; a collection of proteins, cellulose, and waxes more beautiful in that instant than the rise and fall of generations of biota on this unfeeling planet. But perhaps unfeeling denotes a negative trait in the planet? Or lest we forget that the plant falls to the mighty deer and becomes poop to feed another tree yet unplanted, it still a growing seed far off the ground. All of this revolves again and again, day after day, millenia after years after months; the planet blinks not. She slumbers in the rejuvenating twilight of Life and Not Life, forever spawning the building blocks of awareness and smashing those blocks to dust with her might. Gaia cares not for the trapped rodent; neither for the triumphant feline. And yet, she cares for both, by allowing both a chance to Be. A chance at chance; a stake in destiny, though that destiny is ultimately the deep dark forever chill of entropy.
At 4:29 in the morning, I may have found that grandiose and profound thing to be said. Take a memo, get a pen! Call the paper, stop the presses! Don't miss this one; it's a classic! It's All Life until it's Death, so live it while you can. Wade through the shit and piss, cause if that's all you've got, relish it's texture and smell. Revel even in pain; better that than missing it all wishing for some dreamy far off fantasy of green pastures and sweet winds bringing all your desires. If one desires, such as myself, to let it all go and find out what lies beyond, let them put down the pistol, untie the noose. Live and let die, because that's the greatest gift. Dying and letting live assumes a higher up, one that dictates the Rights and Wrongs; screw him!
Beauty in the carefully strewn rocks from a swerving car, Beauty in the carefully grown petals of a blooming flower, and Beauty in the knowledge that knowing won't help out in the end. Being is its own Beauty.
At 4:38 in the morning, having said all this, I find beauty in the simple act of going to bed. Perhaps I shall dream of wonderful happenings; or shall I dream of nothing? No matter, because rested again and rejuvenated, tomorrow I shall Be again.
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