15 11 / 2011
There Must Be Something Greater
Swift like the wind, flowing, descending, whistling through hallways and caves and alleyways, passing over dogs and cats and paperclips and winding its way through an infinity of moments into the mind of Mr. Phillips. He feels the passage of time through the ideas that arrive in his mind, notices the ticks of the clock, feels the subdivisions upon subdivisions that render those arbitrary demarkations by which we organize the world utterly meaningless. Then out, passing through the window, over the garden, down the path into the forest, striking birds and rats and armadillos, blue rivers and green trees and brown earth, zephyrs and gusts and billows and a lonely jazz musician who wanders alone. He stops. Listens. Feels. Wonders. Wonders why, and what, and who, and when, and whence? He knows everything but himself, and in this instant is most alone. And then, the flames leap from one limb to the next, spreading the forest and leaving, entering the fields and meadows, startling cows and sheep and whipping through the thoughts of farmhands who raise their eyebrows and exhale slowly, no longer waiting for dinner. Continuing into their homes, into the sinks and bathtubs, sinking through plumbing meant to channel only the most physical of ingredients, and down, and out, and into the oceans where puzzled octopi cease their daily maneuverings to think — and then, bursting like fireworks, nay, dolphins! out of the ocean, into the sky, through the clouds, and past the furthest reaches of atmosphere into the depths of space. And then, silence.
