Run Down by the Eclipse

It was a time ago that it was learned what it meant to be alone. Standing silently in a crowd — masses by the thousand — not knowing a soul (not even my own) absorbed in the dusty space between you and I. standing shoulder to shoulder but farther apart than I’ve ever felt. It was this day that the distinction of loneliness and alone was made. Perhaps my invisible helicopter identity was not recognized because it seemed the point of the swaying masses was to bump into me. This contact was not a reminder of my presence, but took me out.

It doesn’t make sense, they’d say. Too wordy or complex for what I know you as. It’s fascinating the lack of depth that happens on a regular basis, the ignorance of the substance that lies beneath the surface as one tells themself that to do so would force them to let go of the agency that was willed into existence. We musn’t interrupt a forced happiness sourced from denial and the illusion that everything is together; we are pieces separated by spacetime and therefore never together.

Perhaps the edge of existence stops just before the infinite Self because to view one’s Self as infinite would be like viewing the physical body in the rapid expansion of the universe that breaks physics. Maybe it’s why the people that occupy our lives serve roles. That in the effort to be recognized as an individual, a task being performed ad infinitum by humans everywhere, we cannot allow ourselves to to be more than. It seems implausible and improbable that I am performing the same role, same sticker, same label using a different description.

Perhaps I want to be and that’s why I see myself doing the same thing using a different colored lens while pretending the scenery to be different because my red is your purple — merely adding more blue because the shadows I see blanketing the mountainside are consuming the light you see reflecting on the snow caps and piney landscape. Maybe we are so caught up noticing ourselves that we’re too busy to notice another and in this rejection we validate the feeling of existence like atoms on the eve of electric recognition pushing away the fruits of knowledge that we never touched — it just felt like it.

There is no way to know and pretending to do so is more exhausting than the work that is necessary to do so, but it can’t and won’t let us. In a time of immediacy: gratification and harm, there is very little address to the lasting effects of the immediate because we’ve become too wrapped up in the lasting that everything now feels temporary (for the first time in a long time, the now feels permanent despite outcry of the contrary).

There is know ways and it’s cynically humorous because when you ask another if they know their Self, the usual response is one of uncertainty. Yes, I think so. No…I am not sure. Maybe? I should! Everything is meant to be deconstructed in order to build anew but cannot be deconstructed, but I find myself still standing, still, in the Adventure Playground standing on nails with a cup of paint in my hand wondering how to tear down that mess which stands in front of me so that I can build something for the sole purpose of being torn down.


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