Abreath

Abreath

 

Begin. Awake. Splinter. Divide. With Dawns subtle warm kisses, you're stirred into a daze of infinite...what. What is infinite? Is it the endless repetition of something learned at birth and forgotten and learned and consistently forgotten like small specks of snow that get caught up in a frozen current, never to been seen the same again? Names. Oh, The names! Name me, and forget the meaning or what the fingertips have touched. This is death. When the sensory tingle of air glides past your finger tips, will you feel it forever? Or will you forget and remember only when it takes your hand and carries you from where and what you once could have been.

 

Infinity is bounding, leaping, whirling, white and black rabbits. climbing over and under each other. Fleeing from, away, apart, safety. Madness. Thats all. Infinity is madness. A childs toy. Water flowing into my fingers. Experience misery, experience the infinite's bliss. Persue mortality in its clever guise, waving its finger. A beacon of science, or discovery. Will I be the one to find immortality? I, an insignificant, almost non existant speck of matter in an infinite galaxy. 

 

Everything, or nothing, is infinite. We happen to be too small, too weak, too simple, too even grasp a vision of what one would consider infinity. We may babble in our books, our science, our religion. But one can only know from experience, no? If we cannot touch it, taste it, smell, see it, We can never be even remotely sure. Or am I wrong? How can one ever be so certain...about "Infinity" if we have never, nor will ever, behold it. A kink in technology occurs when one dies without leaving any remarkable trace of genius, or when one kills a genius streak with pounding mindless ridiculous nonsense of supposed "Human Superiority"  into a fragile child's being. Shoving the spoon of war and forced understanding into the soft hearted core of innocence. A child with no prior understanding of sadism, or sickness, being fed the poison from a jaded mother's rotting breast. Her mouth, smelling of foul death and dripping with tar, with teeth, green and black and sharp as a lie. An enfant can only grow from its environment. It eats the the soft sweet grass given by life itself, but finds the putrid,dirty, infected grass indifferent.  Taste or none.