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We Humans of Miracle

Uninhibited imagination enhanced, enriched by insomniatic inspiration. A thousand unreal conversations practiced while incapable of a quiet nights sleep. My consciousness turns questionable, Entering an indeterminate dimension; Im sitting unsettlingly on a fence, defenseless, shifting scene to scene, unsure of myself, drifting in a serene space. Unbound by my body, I face no barriers but those self-imposed; Free and fearless, the dreamscape offers a brief escape; confined within my mind, I exist in an infinite design; eternity is timeless, and everything feels fine. Love greets me with warmth in forms I may never feel; I sense the effects of affection while my waking life is defined by rejection. Running through reality with a smile and aura of zeal, the truth behind the veil shows those smiles arent real. Clear signs of what I lack and have,

dreams suggest I grow and adapt; I learn who I am and can be, only in a land completely free. Its the prettiest sight: a peaceful blue translucence, an azure atmosphere of ethereal matter, rooted in the science of Rayleigh scattering. A flattering display reserved for my dream-eyes accustomed to such scenery, blind as they are when awake; They wait all day to open once more, awash in the impossible visions and venues to explore in dreams: That realm relatively separate from reality and the insanity; that sole private place for people today, where personal becomes public in an instant. An empty cardboard box, safe from society; its a shame our stays rarely create a memory lasting beyond a few days. What awaits in waking life makes me reconsider the adage think outside the box. After the dreams end my fears and failures are no longer masked by metaphor and my staggering anxieties are no longer symbols

conjured so I may better comprehend and combat them, they are all open and exposed and unequivocally real and I must deal with them, hours on end, until I can once again free myself inside my mind in my comfortable bed. Our eyes tire of what we see outside in life, beyond our dreams, which is why every night we close them and pray for reprieve.

Whitman would say yawping til my lungs burn out, my pitiful trachea shreds, as a desperate attempt at relief; a modern amends to the majority in misery for my fortunate circumstances. My imaginative catharsis entails internal destruction for a peaceful soul; a soul that has finally had its say. Destroy the body to save it. But I am dreaming again. Chances are I will never see those hillsides anymore than I will be galafied, or I should say, so glorified that I am invited to a gala. No dances with countesses or princesses. No chats about Yeats with an old man who never meets my eye because hes so entranced by his champagnes bubbling; never an entrance to be made from atop a towering staircase with a shallow, blushing bride in tow. I am so suburbanized so accustomed to flatlands that the idea of social escalation leaves me with vertigo and anxiety. A fearful knowledge is knowing daily routines so ho-hum will make up my remaining days ad infinitum; that my setting is my sentence

How long can a man be subjected to sitting before he becomes unbound and bursts at every inch and seam? What breeds this feeling of inadequacy, of apathy, of antipathy, to a world-system-structure, that has coddled them in relative luxury? How much must be endured before a man prefers to lash out? I sympathize with those who slam their fists into walls, and when asked why? cannot explain themselves; They just had to. At times, I imagine myself on English hillsides standing on limestone cliffs and finding myself yelling -

ad nauseum, and the most cultured Ill become in the tired tongue of Latin are those two lines. Im left with barely constrained fists looking for walls to ruin. ad infinitum ad nauseum. Id rather return to the box.

Tears well as I desperately pray to no one in particular to feel everything all at once. The tranquility of the infinity the Universes bounty and its cold hostility; Moments: caressing a beautiful woman, seeing nuclear holocaust in person, your best friend dying beside you, the final flicker of the last sun, the first pool cool-off of the summer, fresh-cut strawberries smell, the lonely hours in the batting cages, breaking beyond the bounds of our atmosphere, and that fear of a night thats too quiet, so something must be off. I want them all at once; an experiential orgasm that would shut me down for good. What a fucking way to die. Where do these demands stem from; these self-destructive pleas for an overload of emotion? Is it a modern-day malaise known only to suburban American males

with technological addictions and not enough walls upon which to wail, or is it a worldly yearning? Are there men in Sri Lanka with this, this obsessive need to feel all the love and destruction this Universe has ever revealed in one swift rush of blood to the head? Do they have access to outlets that drain these excess primal urges? What does it take to excise these demons of wrath and fury? Should I ship off to war, in an effort to ease the pain? Is warfare even what it once was? It now seems so sanitized, sterilized, standardized; What war would I be face-to-face with my enemy; hear his bones break before mine, see his eyes glaze over as mine catch fire, and have his warm, viscous blood stain my white Fruit of the Loom cotton tee? Again, dreaming. Fleeting fantasy: this taste for others death; I dont want that person I kill to be real. I suffer from reverence and wonder in knowing the marvelous string of events that led to single-celled organisms evolving into these irrational bipedal beasts:

we humans of miracle. The stories in religious texts are incomparable to the wonders of truth found on the other end of the looking glass. From Copernicus to Hubble, weve come to understand our place, literally, figuratively, in the Universes fragile bubble. My God the enormity of the odds we overcame to be what we are right now; the humdrum nature of doom every second that is leveled, that we have sidestepped in our modest existence, ought to stagger us. Where do god complexes originate in brutes so immaterial? On beaches, are there microbes on grains of sand that have never been stepped upon that feel the same? How else could I love these creatures, my species, despite their crimes, except to see them as a far-flung family, and to forgive them? How do I marry this conflict; the animalistic bursts of rage with the enlightened love of life? How can my mind sway from images of magnificent mushroom clouds wrought from hydrogen bomb bursts to our satellites marvelous sights that look at Earth from outer space? How do I find beauty in both Forms? I want to be one of them;

those rare souls who soar above the blue luminescence and stare down at sky. They see the world for what it is: a marble in a minefield, rolling, rolling, rolling toward inevitable demise to us, a death always two tomorrows away. To see our world so vulnerable, with its see-through shield atmosphere, how can one not fall for it? Nevertheless, that mushroom cloud still holds some control over my soul. To see a fraction-of-a-fraction of our stars ever-burning power manufactured by us and unleashed... it is something to behold. I want to bask in its glow, or better, to be at its nexus when it explodes, or even more, be propelled into a real stars core. I want to die in a manner extraordinary.

With a bleeding heart, I extend my hand to the downtrodden to be rescued from the heart of darkness, the one that lies deep within, hidden, in the optimistic outlook of capitalism,

consumerism, Mom and Apple Pie; I bear an unhinged Messiah Complex hell-bent on completing LBJs Other War and socializing, Scandanavizing, the nation. Never a night ever again where a child cries to sleep on the deaf ears of men. I want it gone, that hunger, those tears and that anger. A system is not stable that satisfies only the thoroughbreds with gold-plated stables while feeble, freezing foals shiver in the cold. Those fine mares may sleep on the finest hay to be found, but the poor souls outside find no rest on frozen ground. Is there implied responsibility in our fortuitous lives? I cannot quit dreaming. I have crippling symptoms of human nature, to which I mean greed infects me and tells me there is no higher matter than me, me, me. Where a conscious should be is a devious sprite throwing together a persistent drumbeat, a nonstop pounding and proudly shouting, No soul before your own!

Money, fame, the best of every goddamn material; from nothing to something fully grown, the American Way is natures way. I want to be the Leviathan. No other role is suiting. The Just City and Mores Utopia, are not fit for my infection, which feeds on the flesh of the unfortunate. Craving for more, more, more at the cost of the lives of the poor? Its something I can live with. One group is beset by this particular mindset to keep them in the fog about the perpetual state statistics say they will forever stay. I am middle-class; the disappearing clan of the American tribe. 40 years on a trail of tears; being pushed off our land by the Invisible Hand. Unique and fleeting, my position posits questions: will I rise to riches or plummet into poverty? A nightly rage against the system gamed against so many coupled with lustful thoughts of plentiful, carefree hedonism have me splitting in two. Why not just forgo responsibility

and succumb to the me that Hobbes knows? I could fall back into the finest bed every night as a thoroughbred. I could cut a million dollar check to a childrens hospital without a care, and have a wing named after me. Free publicity. What is charity without care? Who cares? The dollars go an equal distance. Can I overcome my desires for desires and be an angel of mercy and sympathy? Will I fight alongside the meek? What difference can I, alone, make? In the grand scope of the Universe what does it matter? After I die, what of my legacy or reputation matters anymore than the life of a microbe. Just as we look at far-off stars knowing we are seeing the light of long-dead bodies, so may others be looking at us and see the same.

and set the surroundings ablaze while standing under it with open arms meant to hug and kiss the apocalypse. A war so grand and encompassing of every man on the planet, that there is no discernable honor for men to carry back home, just sweeping sprays of gunfire and gas. Men laugh at mens last gasps. Clearing the No Mans Gaps with bravery befitting a nation brainwashed on patriotism and militaristic slavery. Laying in muck and slop and sloshing frantic boot heels into mud and snow while grabbing your throat thats throwing blood into the air like a volcano at the science fair. Arcs of tomato soup soar until the supply is depleted. Defeated in a war that demeaned the democracy it claimed to fight for. Sitting reclined comfortably day in and day out without a worry til it becomes too much to bear. No one to share the silence with but a photo of that lovely girl who became your wife, the one cut down by cancer cocktailed with dementia. What is it to reassure your love when she doesnt know you, but begs you to make her nausea go away. She calls you Doctor. Time heals all wounds, right? Youve had 25 years since

Falling through the sky untethered from stratospheric heights like that common dream, with the catch that you wont be caught. Accepting it, and letting that wind ripple and seeing the curvature of earth, you fall, and fall, and fall. Watching the meteor erupt

the grass finally grew on her grave. That picture of her looks at you while the Wheel of Fortune spins, while contestants enter Final Jeopardy, and Must-See Thursday is turned off. A quiet tub is ran while that service revolver is cleaned, long overdue, and you weigh it in your shaking hand. Slipping into the warm water with that old gun, the one you called The Silver Slugger of the South, You arm it with one bullet all that is needed You think of that picture, that dying woman, that wife, that girl you asked out. You wager to yourself which of your children will find you first. What do these lives matter? Eventful or not, they are all over. The lives they changed, good or bad, are meaningless. Life is just killing Time. Life is loving that Time. Loving the killing. Killing that love.

Can you collect them all, and still have it feel the same? Or will that moment when you cried for days as a sorrowful mess, lose its impact after a lifetime? I want to destroy something beautiful. Love is all you need. I feel that the Cave has added chains, so even those who learn the Truth remain. Is this rumbling in me what I seek? Am I feeling everything now? Is it not nirvana, as I believed, but a festering sore upon the mind, irremediable? Better to have laid in bliss unknowing of it all rather than stew in contempt at having bitten the apple. But, Sad is happy for deep people. Sometimes. Other times the madness needs to roam and one may foam at the thought of that lost control when the falcon cannot hear the falconer and a pain flows from the fists into innocence. This sadness, that sore, it cannot be solved

I write foolish, wretched words. I dont know what life is. Its pretentious to think it could be brought out here. Maybe it really is the search for that overwhelming rush of all feelings at once.

with sudden fury. Sadness set on others begets greater sadness. What is this dream of mine? This vision of clenched mitts because I know Im alone, that humanity could be for naught by dawn tomorrow; that good women are raped and hold their tongues in shame til theyre lowered in their casket because they were afraid; that pure-hearted people die too soon; that girls and boys are bullied until they Google How to tie a noose; That 9/11 happened and I watched it at age 11; that my grandparents, my parents, my dog, my friends, and the girl I love, will die; that I may die and others may cry for some reason I may have argued about were I still alive. I wasnt that nice, or, no, please, I hate flowers. Loss, more than hate, makes me want to tear down walls and watch cities burn for years and fall from the stratosphere. Loss renders the most irrational destructive version of myself, and Ive seen so many Jekylls learn of loss and have their Hyde unveil itself in fearsome form and nothing scares me more. We come to exist in a way

so others will feel tenfold what we feel, which is why I fear whomever has lost the most, as theyll cause Heaven to fall in order for the most to be lost. Joy appears not to have this quality to stay in your head and turn one into an Ahab: a manifestation of obsession. Why is happiness passive rather than the greatest motivation to stoke those flames in others? A boy on Christmas Day can get all he asked for and embody joy wholly, but lose that feeling quickly if his toy has no batteries; hell unleash a wrath akin to Achilles.

How can you fault the lucky, born into wealth and advantage and living in luxury with the short life they have to live? How can you denigrate the poor born into poverty and a social class mismanaged with so many odds hostile to their favor? I am a mass of contradictions, complex conflictions about socioeconomic issues, extraordinary rendition, and religion in contrast with astrophysics. I am dour at times with all these thoughts

warring away in my mind, but I still see soothing spots of sunshine slip through gray clouds reminding me to smile sometimes. Oh Sagan, you Saint of science and sensibility, you brilliant human, I would hold you up as our savior, the symbol of humanity to stand for eternity for what we could be. You saw a pixel in a picture and could decipher every element and dimension within it. I can only imagine that that speck must have made jelly of your legs now that you could begin to see the insignificance of our size and feel the simultaneous sublimity in how a pale blue dot could mean the world to a species. That's home. That's us. A mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. I think of you andI cannot stomach the thoughts of murder and the extinction of life, but rather a harmonious existencebut do I? Do I? I mean, I want so much; I always do, have and will. I want us to have been something of merit and worth. Really, just extraordinary aside from simply existing. They truly did something

with their given Time. Much more than can be said of other species weve seen. Slouched and slacking away their relatively few days. I say its a shame to be sure, when such special creatures passively squander their lives while the sun shines outside, its rays struggling through tightly shut blinds. A waste of life. A waste of land. A great waste of Time. Time. How much do we have left to create an everlasting monument just to prove that we once were? Even if were never found, let us know ourselves that we did well. Or does that nagging idea regarding the immateriality of legacy strike so hard that chaos comes to rule? Laissez-faire life: let us war, let us bask in dirty pretty things, let us die grandly and procreate the best we can under conditions of just not caring. But Time can also be beautiful. To us, we seem to have amounts bountiful. Grateful we ought to be for the blink of an eye we are granted, to seek out connections, soak up all we can consume, and to venture beyond our planets bounds or well within our imagination, whichever is more enticing

and offers greater adventures to be found. Time is inexpressively lovely when you think of all you have. Even in the end, with your last gasps, think of all the people you can gather and give a heartfelt whisper of I love you to. Think of all the words you can pass on to your younger versions of yourself; those little beings of life you helped create. Those sons and those daughters will always be glimpses into the past of the man that assisted in making them; A man of no great consequence or standing in any particular matter, just a man of matter and particles that have always been since Time began. A man like any other, but having extended his Time, his legacy, by commissioning living portraits of himself and his counterpart, combined, to carry on their remnants and any lessons past forth, hoping theyll listen and hold tight to those words; passing their cargo on to grandchildren and greater generations. Our words serve as our soul. They survive in minds better than they ever could when held within the withering pages and weak-willed spines of burn-ready books.

In the end, when pressed, this is it: I want us to be great whether we are remembered or not, whether our echoes reverberate deep and finally find ears to hear us or fail to find anyone and ripple on an infinite pond.

To us we are everything, yet we are so insignificant in space that it can lead ourselves to believe we are alone, that we can destroy our relatively docile home. Why not? But, stop. Stop. Please, stop. Look at us. Do you see these things? We beings, we are to such a great extent unique in our awareness of our loneliness and odds-damning existence that we can see small moments with ultra-rare awe. We know the factors of causality and the staggering number of correct occurrences for even the most mundane, inconsequential things to be rather than not be. There would be shattered calculators and cracked abacuses in trying to calculate why there should not be a cat on my lap instead of it being there. The Universe is big. It is vast and complicated and ridiculous and sometimes,

very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles... We are miracles just because we are. But even among miracles there are things that dare to reach just a touch further and find a higher tier of meaning. You feel weightless from it, apart from bonds of body and for once you forget about Times grip. Its the prettiest sight when your newborn takes firm hold of your finger for the first time and charms you with that silly toothless grin; its everything. A million-to-one shot that made it; that beautiful child far surpasses talk of insignificancies and is something beyond whatever miracle can hope to mean. For however long that feeling lasts it pushes to the margins madness, personal frustration, paranoid fear, thoughts of economic injustice and the idea of losing your house, your immaterial trinkets and the precious people you hold dear. You dont need sleep or dreams or outlets for those untraceable roots of hate and bloodlust rage. You dont need to worry. You dont need to think. There is nothing needed to say. You have finally found it in your life.

Yourself and that child, that incalculable fraction of Time, is the every-emotion moment. There it is; the calming reassurance of exactly what we are: So small, existing for reasons beyond our understanding, yet clearly so damn important, with the potential to be so great, so intensely brilliant, you could never not care about what it became. And for us I feel the same.

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