Pensive Parity

09.23.07 - 11:59pm

Moonlight refracts through nighttime cloud cover, rosy tinted and pregnant with promising storms. Rain may fall, snow may fall. This time of year, it may be either or neither.

The earth is in equinox; light and dark are equal. I sit, in the median of the night, a simple egg balanced before me on its blunt end. This little life, conceived yet never born. A representation of all the lives I've crossed, all the lives that never came to term. My own life in limbo. It moves me.

Only on this night does it have meaning, or at least that's what I was once told - that an egg can only be balanced on the equinox. I now know this to be false, but it doesn't seem to matter.

There are fireworks tonight, though for what reason I cannot say. We have so many occasions. Explosive occasions long since passed, marked by annual re-creations.

From this distant point of view, smoky tendrils of spent gunpowder envelope the cityscape. The wind carries these streams easterly. In my western world this signifies a movement into yesterday, over imaginary boundaries and into time zones the sun has since past.

I come to a realization. I have betrayed my twelve-year-old-self; double those years and these boundaries have become so concrete. I relented to ideas I knew to be ultimately unavoidable. I know that these displays of light, much like my thoughts, are but an intense and short-lived spark in the face of time, bent by the constant will of the future.

My myriad atmospheres; I can realize in all hues, experience in all scales of sound, and remark, at times, that this is the scent of my childhood. I can touch familiar objects, and re-live feelings with immediate gravity.

These shapes that comprise me are defined by shadows. I can only find myself in retrospect. My existence can only be traced into the past, illuminated by fading memories; glimpses of concrete towers awash in dissipating trails of light.

Why can perception not be double edged? Why can I not cut through what is to come with such ease as I cut through what has been?

It pains me that I cannot say with conviction whether it will rain or snow tonight, if it will shine tomorrow. I look inside myself and can see no glimmer of horizon, neither bright nor dark. The weatherman has never held any answers, and I doubt he ever will.

On night waters awaiting signals from land;
I harbor hope for future fireworks.

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