Thursday, December 15, 2011

A Path to Sleep

In the quest to regain sleep, there is only one path.

A million synapses fire and burn, as the clocks nearly cease to tick by in a tedium of ever-stretching infinite time. The door was mildly ajar, but there was no light to diffract inwards. The infinite black of a darkness was outside, a mild lamp in the room working in its own menial way to reduce the agony of a night, a not-too-comfortable bundle of muscles, bones and blood and life and a mysterious sense of self-consciousness lying down on a thick bed, and ten slender magical creations protruding from the bundle were hitting off symbols on a man-made computing machine endowed with reasonable (or as a proud human would declare, astonishingly sophisticated) faculty. It was as if one felt every unit of Planck time pass by, with an accompanied pulse of acute pain (in a manner of speaking, as the phenomenon described herewith, might be physically impossible).

When the dreadful black hole sucked matter in, that was precisely how it felt. Time stretched greatly, and the varying powerful gravity tore the spaghettified object apart from head to limbs.

'Why all this angst?', says the wise man, he whose willful non-compliance with the random architecture of the human nexus has by now made him pretty much entirely, a social outcast. 'Fairness and justice, are arbitrary conceptions of a fallacious mind that seeks illusory gratification in a system of infinitely incompatible ends. Success is arbitrary too, and money, just a fluid that unceasingly flows up and down through in myriad ways. Who deserves what? There are killings and blood and scandals and mindless warfare, and all the universe would at one point to be reduced to a dot. The restless see differences that are only in the mind, for all the living, only progress from death to death. Why expend great energy on what merely was an arbitrary act of whim'.

In the quest to regain sleep, there is only one path. Detach oneself from all that is a mere inexplicable consequence of the immediate vicinity in time and space you happened to exist in, and just imagine a great singularity that spit us all out. It is this way that one might just find - rest.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

'A-run' on the mill poem:

A-hoy, A-run, A-hoy,
A loud mouth and a big boy,
Bitter-batter, Chitter-chatter,
(He's) A tedious communicatron,
Made of articulate matter,
But very likely a verboson.

Positively charged, but
(He's) Often barred
On touchy matters of sensation,
For fear of negative polarization.

(He) Dilates time in other frames,
(As they) Deconstruct his convoluted statements,
(And they'd) Lose their brains and their soul,
As if they were sucked into a black hole.

Talks about dark matter,
That no one likes to see,
Chitter-chatter, bitter-batter,
But that's what he'd (I'd) be.