Sunday | January 13, 2008

The Universe Already Knows

Aren’t you going to sign the guestbook of the universe, the immortal pages that hold every heart? You’ve pasted all your pictures here, as I can see from the glossy prints, matte backgrounds, and old sepia. Your writing is here, too, and look how it’s done, so imaginative and original! Why, some might think that you had actually died a while ago, as your discussions on the subject are eerily close to the truth. This is brilliant, I tell you, stunning and colorful, creative and with a certain ambiance that allows one to experience it too. Yes, I believe that you must sign this page; you have worked so very hard on it. Look there at the detail, and that video of you dancing. Oh, you were exquisite, rapturous, one-of-a-kind amazing. Yes, I see it now, and there, one little corner left. Please, sign your name. The universe must know of the great triumphs of your life. This is eternal, a classic. Here, an imaginary dotted line, just waiting for you to gallantly sign. Good, there you go, you’ve got it now. Just pick up the pen, form the letters, and, oh, what’s that? You aren’t signing your name, why aren’t you signing your name? Oh, no! Stop, you’ll rip it! No, don’t rip that masterpiece, it’s so amazing, so grand, so fine, so—

And the paper falls to the cold hard floor, barren of life. It crumbles into tiny piles of dust as a handsome man bends down to run his fingers through the powder, trying to scrape it up, to press it flat into a rectangle, but he fails. He weeps into his hands, pressing them into his eyes, because he is a man and men don’t cry. He tries again to reform the paper, and the dust specks stick to his tearstained fingers, the beautiful life grasping his hands, pretending that it’s gray and dull and useless. He cradles his palms, holding the dust inside.

He looks up into the eyes of a beautiful woman, a solemn gaze too old for the face. She says to him, “This life has still been lived. There are still memories. There are still words to tell stories. There are still people, even if every last piece of paper were to crumble. The universe can learn nothing from this, because the universe already knows. It is simply waiting for us to figure it out on our own.

Posted by Violet at 21:33:55 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |

Monday | December 03, 2007

Paintbrush of the Universe

The first snow of the season was yesterday, and I combined it with something I had written already to create this piece about becoming one with the universe. (If you haven't noticed, I happen to like writing about dancing, though I promise I do write other stuff.) Oh, and by the way, I WON NANOWRIMO!!! I just can't get the little widget thing to work properly on this website. *sighs depressedly, if that's even a word*

It snowed today, big white puffy flakes and driving icicle rains that crashed the windows. It left inches on the ground, small inches that squished beneath bare frozen toes, driven to pink and red splotches in the cold. There were daggers of freezing temperatures and daggers of icicles hanging from the porch roof as I stepped out into the darkness of the early morning, the time when no sane person has the audacity to be awake. It is the time of mystery, of half-light, of magic that cannot be accomplished any other time. It is perfection, in its way, like everything is. I danced in the snow until I couldn’t feel myself anymore, an out-of-body experience as the result of numbness, but I was connected to myself anyway. I was one with everything, because I lost myself.  I was one with the entire universe; the only spark of warmth surviving in the vacuum of spatial wholeness was my own heart, because without it I would die, but it was so insignificant that it wouldn’t have mattered if I did, anyway. I was important, though, I was the paintbrush of the universe, the dancer whose toes shaped what would happen, what did happen, what had happened, what will happen now, when the dancer, I, have returned inside to the warmth and the fire of the furnace to try to feel myself again. I don’t know if I will ever be able to, as I can’t seem to let go of the entire feeling. I was one with the universe, and now I am incomplete without the oneness, incomplete until the next icicle spangled morning when I dance in the snow. Maybe it will be tomorrow, and maybe I will die without ever knowing perfection again, but I can live knowing that for one moment I was whole, for one moment I lived as the paintbrush of the universe.
Posted by Violet at 15:54:38 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |