Imagination

In the secret spaces, secret spaces of our mind.  The place where none can go; it's where I like to hide.  A mirage of existence before me, and an eternity inside.  Do we die?  What are these particles that make up my being and is this what makes us real?  I don't think so; there has to be magic.  Life would be so tragic without it.  Science is magic, but science can be so indifferent.  Science can be impersonal; then also sometimes wondrous.  Quantum physics resonates and moves me.  Little spaces in the brain that no one can touch.  That no one can really understand.  Such a minute existence on a quantum scale.  On a universal scale, infinitesimal is the vast space that we barely fill.  Imagine tiny universes inside each cell; imagine our whole bodies are really bits and pieces of galaxies or universes.

Imagine.

Death Fantasies

I often imagine my death.  Something tragic, like a movie playing out, or a great story. Sometimes it happens while I’m in the shower.  I leave the door open - as I often do - and a dark stranger, or maybe an angry ex-boyfriend creeps into my home, quietly.  They kill me with a knife; death by shower scene, classic Hitchcock.  Or perhaps I am shot?  Do they use my own machete that sits close by where I sleep, or perhaps the baseball bat in the corner?  That would be gruesome and mildly ironic. 

Other times it happens in the car.  I’m t-boned by a drunk driver, smashed into nothingness, into breathlessness.  It is never my own doing, exactly, that brings about my doom.  Though it would seem, as I sit at the same job, in the same uneventful life, afraid to move forward, that I am indeed the responsible party.  Could my morbid fascination with hypothetical death fantasies be nothing more than a subconscious fear?  A fear that has gone for so long unaddressed as I sit in wait for the future that is to come?  And while waiting, I miss out on what could be; I sit idly in my discontent.  Though I know I am not alone in this waiting game, it still sucks, and the loneliness of it gnaws away at my being.

People that are deemed as the ‘greats’ of the world, do you think they felt the same longing?  Do you think they wondered when life would ‘happen’ to them?  The intermittent transformations that slowly evolve us into something new and hopefully better.  I wonder if they noticed these, or were they always just ‘great’, happy and content with their life situation.  This could easily lead to a rambling about the meaning of humanity, so I'll just stop there.  Happy hump day.

~HB

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