Saturday, December 2, 2017

Panic

Sometimes 
the world feels so big
it makes me panic
I look at the miles that I travel
and all the worlds that unravel
before my eyes
when I sit with all the people
that I think I know
As I grow older
I get luckier
because the boundaries of my globe
don't shrink
they grow
The places called belonging and connection
aren't located at the end of a singular road
Paths to walk have splayed out around me
like a spider web surrounding
and just when I think
I have connected all the intersecting threads
my life moves forward
and the pattern spreads 

The rare moments that I am capable of 
presence
become birthstones of my momentary existence 
The coal of mundane
compresses minutes
and hours
and days
making diamond memories
to be mined later
in the quiet library of my mind
The time
it takes to travel
in between
all those crystal destinations
all the introspective transportation
makes me panic
about this constantly fracturing
and continuously scattered incantation 
I find shards of shrapnel 
Timeless glimpses of past and future 
Captivating sparkly distractions
that keep me from noticing
the latitudinal and longitudinal lines
that are wrapping up around me
forming the grenade
that is once again soon to explode
Is this just the process of evolution
this repetition of emotional implode
Mushroom cloud billows of blossoming smoke
Crackling tangles of glass
Cities are built
go to war
turn to ash
Generations come and then pass
Centuries of ancient forest decay
produce newborn blooms of seasonal growth
Cumulus cycles come in all shades of grey
there are hidden solar storms 
that accompany sunshiny days
followed by hypnotic rolling oceans
softly kissed by silent moon rays

I am but a universal blink
by the eye of this sleeping giant we call time   
No wonder I should panic
from the understanding
of the magnificently minute
microcosmic measure of my life 
No wonder I insist on holding this mold
that I continuously break
No wonder I sift through
the aftermath rubble 
like chicken bones in a witch doctors hand
No wonder I inspect the skins of my cocoons
spread out and searched through
like a map of the internal land
No wonder my tiny brain
can barely understand
that my significance is even less than
a fraction of a speck of stardust
swirling in the irresistable magnetism of a black hole
and also
that it is 
as beautiful 
and fleeting
as the icy fractalled lifespan
of a single perfect flake of snow 
Sometimes I panic
because when I stop to think about it
my world doesnt really 
feel very big
at all