It Gets… (a prose poem)

The bad thing is not death. Death, in its way, is a comfort, a bracket, a parenthesis that closes an open case. It is a consummation, an end in all senses. The bad thing is not illness. Illness, in its sometimes inexorable progression, displays a form of beauty even, as one form of life gives itself over to a throbbingly exuberant other form of life, itself to burn and fade within structures other than those which our minds can comprehend. To burn, to fade: analogies for light, without which none that are could be. And such little light too, a fragment of a fragment, other earth-bound mortal things need not abide by it, these false restrictions.

Why not see farther, look into the eye of gods, pierce the veil, see the omnipresence of music, the omniscience of universes we could never observe, sing together the harmony of a picture never painted and unpaintable. The harmony of the spheres, ha, until placed into stark relief. The bad thing remains.

The bad thing is not knowledge. It is not ignorance. The bad thing is a broken string, an asthma attack, chaos some would say, though the English word implies a managed and understood known unknown. Somewhere, enveloping all is the unknown unknown; the questions we didn’t know we should have asked, the knowledge typifying our ignorance. Far more interesting than the known knowns and the known unknowns opens the aporia that is the unknown unknowns. A void shedding dark light on a darker void. 

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~ by Benji on 30 March 2014.

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