Monday, March 07, 2005


The winds shift, fluttering and flapping through the barren trees, the one-time whistle deadened to an eerie moan. It bites and shoves, spins and turns; it leaves you lost, confused, misdirected. You look up then, searching for some assurance from the heavens. Some majestic form, descendent from Yahweh, wafting down from the Silver City to guide you from here. Instead you see stars. Millions, billions, stars so bright, so irrepressible, you wonder how it can be night at all. Their light gestures to you, it seems, beckons and begs, promising wonder and enlightenment. You simply stare.

The figure rises then, up through the treetops, up past the gentle blue curve of atmosphere, beyond the green and blue and white, even past the pockmarked grey. Moving incomprehensibly fast, it abandons the little orb for but one of an infinite number, a lonely little ball dancing around a sad little star. It moves far away, past the stars, to a vantage point not reachable by any other save itself. It turns then, looking back, looking down upon the Creation, upon the galaxies outstretched, the stars innumerable. A single star it plucks from the rest, a pin amongst a magnet hand, and it sees the breakdown in place. Molecules splitting, recombining, hydrogen and helium and trace gas, unnamed elements performing unnameable acts, trotting their lewd waltz ad infinitum.

The figure is not bound to the physical, not restrained by a mere body, so it watches this star, this Sun, this glowing pearl in a field of diamonds, and watches it move forward through time. It may be the figure's will, or merely the natural progression of things; the cause matters little. The stars glows brighter and spreads, now a white pearl, now red bloodstone, now blue lazuli, now black as onyx. The star shrinks, contracts, draws in upon itself, searching for more heat, more players for its dance, and eons wears masks and become seconds. Now the star detonates, a little hand-grenade amongst the jems, and hear time stops. The figure spins it playfully in his palm, examining it from one angle, then the next. It wonders at this suicide, this deadly output of atomic power, the ignoble sacrifice of a once proud ruler. The gases expand, slowly, deadly, and without remorse. It spreads out, a supernova, a nova, a detonation of the will. It expands, and for generations it is merely a cloud amongst the spectre, the once-proud star now reduced to mere trace.

The figure marvels, then, at this sacrifice, not for God nor country nor duty, but simply for the natural progression. A simple fate, majestic and true. The figure watches then, time again flowing like a raging whitewater, crashing past at speeds unnatural. Until it happens. The wonder returns to the figure, as the gas, spread apart by violent self-destruction, begins to coalesce. Smaller now, seperate now, but the same form in miniature, the one star becomes several, and they begin to shine anew. Pearls again amongst the diamonds.

The figure disappears, then, seeing what it sought.

You look down from the stars, and now your direction is clear. You walk from the forest, alone but not lonely, and your beginning has not ended.


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