Periphery

It’s the way world moves. The way it looks through my glasses – like an amber dream, and shifting. Like the waves of grain in that song about America, and where people always seem to walk when they sleep or die. In their trips to Elysium and the Summerland, hands outstretched and catching each stalk in passing.

The sun shines through and licks trees, blades of grass, and it makes you wonder. Makes you wonder how many of those blades – billions of leaves of grass and wheat – have been noticed, cataloged by human hands and minds. How many particles are waiting to be observed… And then you realize what a waste of space the universe is. Countless fields, waves and grain and grass we’ll never harvest, never even notice. Not enough fingers to touch or minds to experience. So what’s it for?

To distract you from the drive. To fill in the holes. Like in dreams, there’s only what you notice. The fringes fade and melt. Nothing more is needed. How many stars were there last night in your mind? How many clouds or rocks or leaves? It doesn’t matter when it’s all background. Even in lucid dreams you won’t notice the universe. It won’t calculate into meaning anything. It’s just there so there’s something if we look. Just in case we keep going.

Straight ahead there’s nothing definite. Mirages and hallucinations. Glance in your periphery, and there’s God – so many billions of untouched blades of grass. Scattered and shifting like a dream.

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