Posted By Horizon Staff November 29th, 2012 in Blogs : 0 COMMENTS

F is for fragile

in response to the Aurora shootings and violence in Gaza 

The beloved is wearing bright blue high heels and a linen sundress, and the man has whisked her off the ground where she is laughing at the sky, daring it to tell her she could be happier somehow.

The next day he is dead. The next day she is crumpled under the cold sheets of a bed too big for her under a sky that is blue as if nothing ever changes.

He is dead. That could be all of it.  In his mind there were layers of color, years of music, facts and muses woven in and out of each other like a library of journals and textbooks, the certified and the handwritten jumbled together in perfect order. Now his mind is gone, vanished.

For the first time in her life, she realizes that there is such a thing as a nothing. There is such a phenomenon as nonexistence. Energy redistributes, atoms reintegrate, but the being ceases. The mind, the person, the power of the collective as it unites into unique individual identity, blown out like a fire-spark. At once, the definite becomes not indefinite but nothingness, not even an abstraction.

He is dead and she will be too, it is only a matter of time. She considers for a moment the open window, the street below, pictures bloodstains screeching commuter traffic to a standstill on a deliberate Tuesday morning. But the deception of purpose, of progress, blankets the drivers in sweet-smelling ignorance, distraction. She cannot bring herself to waken them to the futility of another meeting, another cup of coffee, another shot of cortisone. A one hundred fifty pound truth is too heavy for a city of do-ers. It never fails to amaze her why, when they know they are going to die, they keep trying to heal people, feed people, teach people, what the point of trying so hard to stave off the inevitable. Some have convinced themselves there is more of themselves to be known beyond the last breath, and in the meantime they try to get ready for the next understanding. Others are scurrying about injecting themselves into the ones with younger, longer-lasting bodies, so that when their own hearts fail some similar beat with continue to resound into the sky. Some are just sleepy, half-awake all the time.

She yells up at the sky to shut up, to stop trying to see so much. Close your eyes, she whispers, turn your face away. But the sky is already blue, not speaking or seeing, as cold and lifeless as anything that has been away from sufficient oxygen for so long.

She has decided to live, despite the emptiness above her and inside her, because she does not want to make more emptiness. If she becomes nothing she adds to the empty. If she keeps breathing she adds to the something, though the something is indefinite and lonely and temporal. It is not because she is sufficiently happy. As if happy were enough to justify existence. How can anyone be happy, knowing it is all meaningless, all bound to be broken?

Unless it is not. Unless there is some form of redemption in the end, some power strong enough to bind all together into unity, harmony, cohesion that fills the universe with light and song and joy. Unless there is the possibility of a full universe, a sky vibrating with voices and loves and the desire to remember and understand and know and be together, as blue as a transparent, vulnerable, piercingly salty sea. Unless there is power strong enough to fill every nothing and turn every end into a beginning, a power that breathes and hopes and holds everything together.

Toward this power she murmurs, hopeful.

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