Space

Let us start with a mote:

Simple singularity
infinitely dense,
heavy pixel.

A mote we never knew
yet a mote containing all.

Before
this textured paper,
this word sublime –
this muted mote.

Before
this breath
and this breath –
this monist
monastic mote.

Lonely
but what does it crave?
If it is all –
and everything –
and is Is?

You and I
this minute mote.

An instinct to warm,
this mote contemplates
death by volition.

An instinct to move,
this mote mobilizes;
so birth is born.

An instinct to grow,
this mote matures,
nevermore still.

An instinct to act,
this mote memorizes
every line to come.

In the time before time
the mote cries out:

A mirror!

A way to express
all it contains,
all it knows
itself to be.

The mote whimpers,
thinks about
no things,
then shudders.

In a cold, tight, blank room
the mote shudders.

The mote shudders a rippled reclamation of to be.

The mote shudders, frightened by the possibilities of existences.

Possibilities of
community
depravity
connectivity
incompatibility
longevity.

The mote desires wisdom,
a knowledge of what will relate,
viral machinations
and constant iterations.

The mote shudders
with the impossibility
of responsibility
for everything, itself.

The mote shudders!

Everything becomes.

Everything IS
     flame
          and swirl
               and expansion
                    and collision
                         and collusion
                              and coalescing actuality.

Time hiccups to a start,
trips head over heels into an enervated march onward and forever ever onward.

The mote relaxes,
reconsiders,
lets go,
shudders no more.

Space

Sock it to me

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