An Elegy

As I live and breathe I bear witness to the birth of all things. All things which are born of light. Over and over again, a thousand time a minute they are born. Everything is new, and every person that I see is a newborn giving birth to itself. That man, that old woman, the bird at my feet, the chair, the window, the floor – it all rises like steam from a cup. Don’t you see? It’s not there all the time, the rock, the oak tree in the meadow, it is born in my perception. I give birth to these things, and they give birth to me. In an instant, simultaneous moment of dual recognition we agree upon this fiction of atoms and quarks, and all is in collusion, especially the dead, whose dreams we are still living for them; and for us, we who are not dead. There is the dreaming of our own dreams, the conception and the birthing of accessories to convince us we are living. We are not living. We are not dead. I am not a zero or a one. The atoms of me are a collection, curated from antique molecules. I am a recycled dead accumulation, a new museum, a universe unto myself, my stirring, pulsing, throbbing populations, to who I am a god and king, live and die themselves in the dark city of me as clueless and helpless as I am in this world of strange beauty and sometimes inexplicable death; as sudden and inexplicable as life itself. Why should I expect death to be any less senseless, less mysterious, as my own bizarre existence?

We say such and such person died too early, was taken from us too soon, that it was a freak accident, they will say, an unjust disease, unfair, cruel, meaningless – as if the life itself was any less fair or freakish or just. His coming was as miraculous and inexplicable as his departure. Say that. It was a miracle she was here at all, that those gametes met to create such a wild conglomeration of elements, that gathered so uniquely as to give us her; or him, that we may celebrate, or mourn, that one collection of light suspended in water, that had a name and dreamed a dream, a dream we shared, a mutual agreement, where it was written in our hearts that you were you and I was me and that all this is a world, with each thing having a beginning and an end. There is no beginning. There is no end. There is only the rearrangement of the unseen, and the seeing itself, through which we give birth to all things.

o O o


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