jesus, glee.

why is it that whenever i listen to "mare vitalis" by the appleseed cast that i can close my eyes and see the entire evolution of a planet, our planet? i see the primordial ooze waging itself up and taking shape, the crooked lizards stretching into all manner of creature, everything everywhere climbing out of the sea and into the sun to rest.

and it's not just my beautiful story, it belongs to all of us, every sentient creature looming in the dark corner of some ancient rainforest, afraid of the sounds of birds. it belongs to every arching tree branch folding in the wind, a portrait of steadiness in storms. it belongs to every angry glare you chased someone away with, to every holier-than-thou soapbox you've stepped on, to every bit of dirt and mud that squeezes between our fingers, to every drop of rain that clears the streets: these are the ways of oceans, majesty.

inside us is the story of such extreme rarity, such massive intention, will power (even when only ours) that i feel forced to fall back laughing hard as asphalt and cheer on every damn race we ever ran, every sound that ever etched it's way out of us.

how can anyone stop laughing ever?

inside of me is the most joyous cry of glee, the loudest "shazaam!" manageable by this one frail body, the largest tears of awe ever fallen from one strange soul in the cosmos. so much of me, as you, is a collection of experiences logged away and tied down to include only those details we saw at first glance, only those facts which seemed relevant at the time and it's never the full story, it's never even half of it. but you can't tell the whole story, because as soon as you begin, you see how this story is so tenderly dependant on this other story, this other happening somewhere, this other thought had by someone else some other time in the universe. suddenly, your one little story about your day is enveloped into a sea of happenings and loves and laughs and terrors greater than any finite world could hold.

in this, we are more than the stars.

and all of it belongs to us. but only in the way that we belong to it, only in the way that the sun decides when to bear down on us, when the urge to retreat should overwhelm us. and it does. but so do we.

when tim leary died, they shot his ashes into space and one day, some other sun will shine on him, from some other galaxy he will feel the reflected light of some other moon, moving always through the vast black empty that is full of everything that ever was.

i am a story of massive contradictions. i am a collected data sheet of numbers that don't add up- at least not with any math available to us. and that's magic enough for me.

so here, floating through revelations, i bid a long hard sigh that signals the ease of the day, the simple nature of being alive and moving on, of charging forward for even one more chance to smile in the great Whimsy before it all turns to dust and back again.

after all, we're just floating out here , aren't we?

2005-11-21 | 3:06 p.m.
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