The Cosmic Cycle

The great cosmic cycle moves without a thought. Not a wind, not a purple flower with its little face to the sun disrupts its movement. It is I that watches through a closed window. Me, that observes the sunshine and rain. Tiny droplets roll down the window in a path towards the sidewalk. I watch them race to the concrete. But it is not the end. They will stay just a short time, then travel once again. Up. UP to the ever- present blue. But I watch the wet gray ground while they sit, not static, but patient. A lacy curtain reminds me of the rays of sunshine to come. Mini streams roll down the valleys of a cement driveway, past patient cars and silent trees that stand like brave tall men in the breeze. The needle-covered soil takes what is given. Silently, the seeds of life enter, bringing with it the desires of the sky. Those blackened clouds, pregnant with the hope of sprouts. With the unending goal of perpetuation. This is the cycle. The circle of the cosmos. From life to birth, death and transformation. Rain and sun. Evaporation and storms. I watch from a window, a piece of the circle. And I watch with thoughts. With emotion. With desire. I see her out in the rain. Naked. Her body glistening with beads of the sky. Crystal clear on her white flesh. Her hips move with the thump of the raindrops. The melody of a flute is within her and I watch as the rain holds her in its cold arms. She spins, her ratted long hair follows like a trail of comets. The whispers of clouds bring new forms. Little purple flowers. Overflowing rivers. A wet dog. With it comes lightning and a new language I long to decipher. I listen, from behind the closed window. The clock is locked in place, yet I watch it all in passing. Moving so fast, but the clock remains fixed. I watch from behind the window, through the glass, through the lace curtain. Rivers come from the sky. They come from the clouds. From the cycle that continues without a greater power pulling the strings. I am the rock in a stream. The pebble that drifts as the current moves without guilt or desire. There is no emotion, no sentimentality in this cosmic movement. Just colliding rocks. Smashing air currents and electrical pulses. There is no greater power. As I watch, the window is clear and the clock stands still.

Heat

The passing of time, the greatest lie ever taught in school…perhaps it was never even learned, just an assumed vague notion that was counted by birthday parties and breasts. It is the dispersal of energy. I move, my body jerks forward with the force of a small plastic wind up toy. My right foot lurches awkwardly into the street, the conversion of energy. Another link within the great chain of events. There is no cold…with all the times I have used this word, complaining of rain, dreaming of the golden sun while I cursed the fog…but it does not even exist. It is only the absence of heat…no more real than my many clouded delusions.
Do I understand the news?
Cold does not exist!
And yet, I can become less hot. My vibrancy can diminish, my warm tea turns into the same temperature as the room. I lie in bed, drooling upon my pillow, I am the same temperature of the room. We share the same passivity, the same lack of exuberance.
We are all just here. Our atoms move at the same rate, bouncing at a regular speed. The same rate the universe will one day be resigned to. A tepid bath of atoms, dancing the same uninspired tune.
And yet I can hear the notes that fill the air. My mind interprets the melody and I begin to move. First one arm, then the other. My hips cry out and all of me stands up, all of me begins to spin. My body warms as I swing, as I jump, my heart pounds with ferocious fervor. Around and around I reel…
I hear a knocking at the door, the viscous crawling of atoms not quite moving at my accelerated speed. I regard them with cautiousness. I take precautions and put on my armor. Armed for battle, I stand still. Feeling my heart, sensing the energy that moves up and down every available channel. Each center is more than warm. Each center is alive and moving. But the pull to lukewarm calls. The tired feet below me beg to sit down, and standing there, I know the chair is the first in many steps towards cooling… toward the entropy my atoms wish to find and then forget. I resist as I fall.