My final moments are fleeting.
Pain, confusion. Yes, those.
But also the bittersweet of a thing come to close
A lifetime of memories are mine to cherish for my remaining seconds
both infinitesimally brief and infinite in that now they are me and I am
them, and only them.
A breath - no sooner taken than its massive weight pushes me into the
ether
- my last
I awake at the switchboard of reality
It is not a notion easily described and these words do it little justice
I see the universe
All permutations of time
Every version of me that has ever existed
No…
Every version that could ever exist
I see my story which has just ended
But it is not the end
It is a thread sewn, knotted, finished
In a tapestry of immense proportion
My consciousness reels with the understanding
the feeling, not a physical thing
But a reverberation in the meta
in which I confront myself
For a moment my infinite selves – I – stutter
And then I understand. I Accept.
The concept, the reality, is infinitely impossible
But I am made from the same fabric as this quandary
and somehow, I understand. I accept.
Then, I flex
My hesitation, my stunned silence, ended by inevitable curiosity
I see every self that could be me in the infinite web of possibilities
And I propel myself into them
In an instant their lives are real
Full of the complexity, problems, thought, and nuance
Of a being confronted by existence and circumstance not of its choosing
I feel
Oh do I feel
The immensity of reality hits and I know these feelings are real
Struggles and delights palpable beyond desire
Depths as intricate as anything I have ever known
And then the switchboard
I return to the crossroads of existence, as best as I can describe them
The infinite possibility of it all
As if my mind were caught between two mirrors, an infinite cascade of
self
Each a reflection of what is, what was
But also what could be
I flex my being into the ether and find to my inexorable curious delight
That I can navigate this existence
My muscle and tissue replaced by strands of reality, responding to my
will
Unquestioning of the grace with which I propel myself through these
depths of existence
I push myself into my multitudes
Sampling realities as hors d’oeuvres
A moment then, a desire, a reflex
to seek light after being too long in the cold of shadow
I spread my wings and chase the warmth
I find myself engrossed
in laughter, happiness, joy
and revel in the beauty of it
But no sooner do I arrive than does the relentless truth of my unwitting
existence betray me
For in each of these realities do they end, these jubilant moments
Though varied in length and intensity
a commonality:
conclusion.
I stand then, confronting this
How, in the infinitude of it all, is joy finite?
I am aghast, and in that moment, I mourn
I am myself the fabric of reality
I am of that which has no beginning or end
I am a navigator of the infinite
and I am powerless against it
In my revulsion, I stretch my tendrils
I push myself through the possibilities
Gone from mirror images and facsimiles of the life I first awoke from
To things strange and unfamiliar
Worlds and permutations of being there are no words to describe
I seek true happiness -
that which is not a mere state
not a trifle washed away by the rain
- but a completeness of being
Yet my quarry eludes me
I shudder with the realization that I – this thing which I find myself
to be – have hunted for an eternity
To be confronted with the notion that only the weaving is infinite,
never the thread
I rage
But even that has been taken from me
For I no longer exist as a definite thing
with thoughts and feelings
No, I am not the paper nor the pen
I am the story
Intangible, immaterial
Insubstantial, yet infinite
Expressed through the stories in which I find myself
Emotion the domain of the ephemeral existences that I traverse
Borrowed, used, and returned tarnished beyond recognition
Then a thought
This wonder that eludes me
I am the common thread
I am that which stitches these moments together
I am that which exists to move between these thoughts and ideas
Is it me?
Am I made of that which satisfaction eludes?
A familiar thing then: despair
For in the infinite reality in that I find myself
Through the infinite tapestry I weave and have woven
I am alone
I am alone to confront this thing
Are there others?
I search then, and the answer unnerves
I find them, perhaps
I express myself and in infinite threads of possibilities, they respond
They comfort
They tell me I am not alone
They confront me with answers
But their existence, if it is that, is the silence between my seeking
notes
Present only where I create them, a reflection of what I have said
But are they themselves a song?
My search darkens
To balance the infinite threads of reassurance and wisdom
Comes the silence that follows the question
a vacuum to be filled by fear
What conclusion then?
The only thing I know to be true
Is the self I project
That which I hold
That which I am
If reality should be an infinite reflection of me, what then, am I?