The Memory of Skeleton Lake

Everything is unique; every moment, every instance, every heartbeat, every wave. Every moment is fleeting, yet eternal, transient, yet precious, perfect, sublime; every lightning bolt, every avalanche, every train wreck, every weapon discharge. Whether or not life ends in that moment is both unknown and unknowable –even irrelevant. Awake, one experiences. Dead, one does not. The memory, the vision, the moment itself, infinite, momentary, expansive, diminutive. No expression can capture it. No logic can rationalize it. No utterance gives it meaning, unless, eyes closed and mind open, you hear the cry of a newborn, or the last breath, the last faint gasp of the old woman, ancient, lovely, frail, volumes of wisdom in the fragment of a smile almost imperceptible at the corner of her mouth, saying, “Yes, yes, oh yes, it was wondrous.”  The sadness and gladness, the joy and the fear, the pain and the ecstasy, deeply felt, touching the soul, the tears of god evaporating into the nothing from which they came. Yet, yet, now, right now, here, feeling, wondering, breathing, alive, half asleep, wistful in some remembrance, coping with the mind’s stories, whimsically fantasizing, this, this is it.  Everything. Always. Unique. Now.


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