by Zach Sneddon
I don't know just exactly what it is I am trying to say or ask, but
the words come and I do not control them. Sounds like bats
dancing in a cave, clicking about my skull, turn round and round
and empty themselves onto the keyboard.
Galaxies spinning within universes within the cosmos, we motes
of dust upon the sunbeams. We dance a gigue, a minuet, along
the streams of ether. We know not whence we come or whence
we go, but merely imagine.
The forces we ride we have no control over, but can we learn to
surf them? I think, perhaps, therefore I am not, but the eddies
in the currents swirl gently about my ankles. I stride and create
my own eddies, pulsing out among the ripples, among the waves,
among the surf, among the surging tides that ebb and flow into
the moonlit mind.
Sleep calls like an angry mother, calling me to
return to oblivion, return to lack of wonder, return to
nothingness. I look its way and laugh, "Time enough for sleep in
the grave," and dance my merry way among the rockslides.