all the supernovas
I am engrossed in the notion that we are all harbouring galaxies within us
all the supernovas
I am engrossed in
the notion that we are
all harbouring galaxies
within us,
infinitely complex,
infinitely mysterious
if we are star stuff,
how many of us are supernovas in the flesh?
unfurling in the face of entropy and uncertainty,
and diametrically opposing obscurity itself
are eternities worth
of light
condensed inside a
single blink within a blink
(of God’s eye)
// exploding with such intensity
that both past and future
are tempted to fold themselves
into the ear canals of the present //
the luminescence
of human beings
is light-years more subtle
contained within the inner sanctums of our
(infinitesimally-sized)
beating hearts are
(the Goldilocks zones of)
the spaces where we allow others
into our orbits
because we appreciate the beauty and depths
we have glimpsed during the
intimate “I-See-You” moments
the ones that touch us deeply
in ways that make us forget
our mortality and
humanness
temporarily assuage the notion
that we, too, are living,
breathing metaphors for
dying stars
with brains and eyes and nervous systems,
we are far, far
less luminous (and awe-inspiring)
than the twinkling stars we sing about in
nursery rhymes;
the fires that burn inside us are more contained
and concealed and
maybe
this isn’t such a bad thing
I can’t blow off the notion that the
galaxy I harbour within is simultaneously
too much and not enough —
sometimes too bright,
sometimes too dim —
a lenticular print of a human being;
a walking, talking paradox
in the spacetime continuum
perpetually misaligned,
misdirected
and// displacedinside the fourth dimension
(like Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five)
maybe I’m a casualty of a careless
Creator’s wandering
hand into the margins
of the Word document
that was created in the beginning
(but must still be periodically saved)
an asynchronous synchronicity,
abandoned by providence and pre-destiny,
a chaotic anomaly of an individual that,
one time,
while basking in some
primordial soup bowl,
became entangled
with the wrong worm-hole
and ended up in a(n)
(in)different universe
I have yet to come across another galaxy
contained in another’s heart sanctum
that has gravitated my way and
expressed something within the quadrant of
“Yes, I would like to stay
and orbit the sun
(at least once)
with you”
and truly meant it
and so inter-dimensional fissures
still form because
I can’t help but imagine
all the parallel universes where
things happened (at least)
a little bit differently
// I call them deep spaces —
I
have nine, I think, and
a blank space
should (the Butterfly effect of)
another pretty little butterfly flap
their pretty little wings in the
purple haze of my nebula
while I’m still burning bright //
maybe all this poetic expression is
a survival instinct,
a dying light rage,
a 9-dimensional chess stratagem
to fight
entropy and all its friends
I am continually ignited
by a dimming hope that
(maybe)
I
will not entirely fade
out before I get mine
// hopefully before
Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse
dies //
even if that means I only render
a single curious eye
watching from afar —
through a telescope located
in Alpha-Centauri Five —
to a bewildering moment of wonder
and flabbered gas — no, flabbergasted —
incoherent (yet poetic-sounding)
rambling at the sight of
something so extraordinary,
so achingly
beautiful and faraway
and nonetheless
seemingly impossible
to grasp
maybe
all the supernovas
are just agonizing to be
seen, noticed, acknowledged,
their luminosity directly
correlated with the morbid
awareness of an encroaching
impermanence
maybe
all the supernovas
grew tired of feeling like
nothing more than a light-source
among countless others,
a bright puncture in a staggering firmament,
an inconsequential glitch in the matrix
where it seems all of us were fated to fade out,
to one day blip out of existence as we know it,
like an Avenger caught
in a war against the forces of
the infinite //
if I learned anything
from this existential Tango,
from this tug-o-war between
meaning and the lack thereof,
from trying to dance with the universe but
constantly finding my toes squashed,
my labours of love squandered
(no matter how much my rhythm has improved)
it’s that understanding is often too much
to ask from anyone, if not everyone,
and this song and dance caters
to the ones who burn with a similar
intensity as the rest — at least, the ones
who are easier on the eyes
// and thus susceptible
to (mutual) gravitational
attraction \\
I enjoy existing within
|| the enclosures of ||
fleeting moments illuminated
// like lanterns in the dead of night,
when the stars shine brightest
(unpolluted by ambient light) //
wherein I realize just
how profound and peculiar it is
to just be here
wherever here is
I am engrossed in
the notion that
everything we know
is just a series of random happenstances
and if all the light in the cosmos
were to suddenly disappear overnight,
then maybe everything anyone
has ever experienced was merely a
comforting little interlude between
two (indefinite) periods
of nothingness punctuated by
absolute absence
(of light)
// a sine wave with no ending or beginning //
interlace a bunch of functions
that come and go,
and ebb and flow
with temporary solutions
to the loneliness
and confusion inherent to
the predicament of being
strung along between
yins and yangs,
everything and nothing,
zero and infinity
// a clock without a craftsman? //
word to Dr. Manhattan and
all the Watchmen
obsessed with tracking
calories,
GPS coordinates,
search engine queries,
inquiries into meaning,
while losing track of
time
I am certain that,
in spite of our
endless mundanity,
we are all statistically improbable miracles,
and, whether we know it or not,
just want to be recognized and loved
as such
and maybe this is what lies
at the core of
all the supernovas
