An eclipse upon an eclipse comes; and it is nighttime, when stars expand and wishes come true. There is radiance, singular thoughts that fly by like flashing planes across.
The colors, they shake. They tremble, on the cusp of falling, the way the ancients feared the stars would — come crashing down in one great inferno after the next, seizing the land, taking it back to the endless sky.
But it is, in fact, my mind, I think, or wish, with perfect circles delineating where anger is, and where my angst and joy are. Looming, of course, is despair, though I can do little about it. However, not much is needed to illuminate darkness, to a certain extent — the view is nicest on the verge of darkness, when the bright lights linger on the abyss of another slumber-ridden night.
So many moons later (or before) or now, what remains of this careful construction of vividness, and amalgamation of private rooms of feelings? How some swell and others shrink, and a few inevitably disappear altogether, lost in a way, but still there as well. Because through the darkness, I can still imagine a cute, purplish orb hanging right there, gleaming with blackened light, with a lonesome gravity remaining.
We’ve gone into orbit by now, hustled in quietly without commotion. It’s so celestially serene, circling around this unknown and unknowable body. My arms reach out with tenderness, with callus, spidery hands — but they’re only points of light. My fingers slip right through. As it should be.
Since when did we thus marked ourselves so brilliantly and precisely? Even if they avoid our capture, several circles — it is what the universe is, in a strange sense, if you flattened everything out, and rolled it up carefully. So it goes with me, and probably you: we’re just messy maps, without a locatable purpose, without straight lines, full of nothingness, and a tiny bit of stardust.
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