Coherence

Beautiful Inevitabilities

The galactic conversation,
stuck in the great silence,
mourning the collapse of stars.

Watching and waiting in graveyards of black holes.

And isn't the greatest science,
the science of learning about our longing.

Our longing for other life,
to know we are not alone.

That others are made of stardust,
that others bleed planet crust,
that others croon to songs of asteroid death.

That we are all in awe of the star-yard reaper,
trapped forever, in the end of time?

Stuck in the bonds of travelling space,
the allure of wandering singularities?

What is the beauty of wonder,
for without us to be curious,
there is no divine intervention.

No absurd realisations,

no musing over myth,

and no arguing over fiction.

The stars and suns are not curious,
they have no eyes to observe supernovas,
no hands to caress the event horizons.

For us to no longer wish for above and beyond,
is a hint that we are far gone.

That our time together,
wishing to travel this expanding vision,
has come to an end now.

But isn't it so beautiful?

The inevitability of our lifetime,
that we're here because we've refused to sink rather than swim?

Don't you find the perseverance of life to be the most astonishing thing to ever perceive?

To be discovered and delighted,

to be celebrated and loved?

To be named after the greats,

to be told stories of the appraised?

We're here because we fought to be here,
we stand at the foot of the unknown,
our past pushing us into the light of the future.

This knowledge feels like its been bone deep inside of me,
written in my DNA.

We're all made of the same atoms,
our quarks are always in touch.

Every person from the past has told us as much.

They've given us gifts of word,
given us presents of the arts,
they've told us all about them,
they've told us how much we're loved.

We all inhabit the same planet,
we've all been given the gift of the present.

We're here because life is both kind and cruel,
the greatest juxtaposition ever invented.

We're here because we have been killed for,

died over for,

loved unconditionally for,

provided for.

How can I be so lonely when all I'm surrounded by,
is the people of the past having given me my everything,
a gift given to all of us.

They're in the stitches of my clothes in the material of my sheets,
in the walls and roof of the room in which I sleep.

They're in the recipes to the food that I eat,
in the paths carved out and marked underneath my feet.

They're in the satellites in the stars,
and in the very air we breathe.

And some of these people,
these very recent ancestors,
haven't given us anything at all,
they've no mark on history,
so are they worth celebrating when there is nothing to prove they existed at all?

But that doesn't mean they are nothing in the grand scheme of things,
they've lived just like you and I,
doing things that told stories not for future readers,
but for people of their present.

And some of these people have been the malicious sort,
vulgar and depraved as blood stains their way,
in which they've travelled through life.

I will not lie and say that I know their full stories,
nor the ones that they've cut short,
that I've forgiven them for just existing,
if I did, my tongue would be slit.

But I can say that they've been alive,
that they fought their way through life.

And life has no favorite's,
it doesn't judge who dies.

I cannot anthropomorphize a cycle of a lifetime,
but it has no grievances with those it brings alive;
it only has a single obligation to everything in its eyes.

To give someone a chance to be,

a chance to grow,

a chance to survive.

Someone has been given life to bless us with everything we touch.
Why can't we return them the same favour and do the same as such?