Adventures in Solitude

I stepped into the evening air--walking through the strangeness of a world absent rain. 

The sky is a blanket of darkness wrapped around the figure of a mother, represented by the moon. The puddles are leaves and darkness. 

I am but ideas held up by the carving of bones.

The universe, I've been told, is infinite. The human mind, or so I’ve been told, is also comprised of infinities, but I find myself unable to grasp anymore than toes on grass, made wet by rain. 

The universe is like a spider, spinning galaxies like webs. 

I think in abstractions. 

The universe is a ball of twine, slowly unraveling. The earth is a figment of an Eternal imagination, a dream in the mind of God. Or I dreamed the universe just now, while taking a walk at night, my feet cold and wet. 

I’ve been reading lately of the over effect. It’s something that astronauts experience when they look back on this blue ball from space conceiving its fragility, and the silliness of boundaries and borders, separation.

 I wish you and I and everyone we know could buy a seat on a shuttle to the moon. It’s all I can think of certain nights, sitting next to you, watching the world as it spins on without us.

On this particular walk, I think of the infinities that already exist, across a room, the seat of a bus, the car of a train. How content we all are to remain strangers.

Lastly, I think of my son, reddish cheeks and folds of pale skin, a bit of beautiful flesh. I wonder what of me will go on when I am but atoms again? Perhaps, all that will remain of me are the thoughts he’ll have on some lonely night walk, chilled to the bone, tatters of clouds spread across a leaden sky.

 I wonder what universes he’ll create along the way, which bus ride’s silence he’ll pierce with a “hello.”