There will be a point long in the future where there will be no matter left whatsoever. Hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of trillions of years will have gone by before the last bit of physical existence reaches its un-being.
When that happens, it will mark the end of time having any meaning.
The theory of relativity states that you can move through time, and you can move through space, but there is a limit to how quickly you can move through either, and moving quicker through one slows down your movement through the other.
If I die before the end of time, I will have failed to love you until that point. So I have come up with a plan. I have figured out a way to love you forever.
If we can truly reach the full speed of light, then for us, time will stop. The universe will spin itself apart, into oblivion, while we careen towards that ending, hand in hand. We will reach the end of time in an instant. And I will have loved you forever.
But at the end of time, there is no beauty left for us to experience together. There will be nothing to show you. There will be nothing at all apart from us. It will have been an eternal love, but in name only. A love so full, so complete, that it is utterly empty and as meaningless as time after the end of everything.
So I think that I will take my chances and stay right here on this planet until I die of natural causes, an infinitesimal distance from here to the end of time, a time so short it may as well not have even happened.
I regret to tell you that I cannot love you forever, but instead only for an instant.
In that instant, we will know a lifetime of joy.
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC
The derivative is the rate of increase of a function.
Pleasure is the derivative of Happiness. The more pleasure you are experiencing, over time, the happier you will become.
Happiness is the derivative of Worry. The more happiness you feel, the more you will believe you can lose, and the more you will worry about losing it all.
I have never been happier in my life.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 10:53 AM UTC
It doesn't feel like she's gone.
I am struggling to come to terms with it, and you are coping with sleep.
You're smiling. I bet you're dreaming about a world where she's still here.
I hope you stay asleep, and in that world, for a long time.
It's far lonelier in this one.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 7:44 PM UTC
They told me you weren't hand tamed.
But we proved them wrong.
After three days, you were fluttering to my finger
From half the room away.
Quickly though, you slowed down, and grew unsteady.
In those last moments, you looked at me, trusting me to help you.
But I couldn't. I didn't know how.
I passed you off to the doctors,
in the hopes that you could be cured.
They did what they could,
but in the end,
I only succeeded in making your last moments a mystery to me.
Were you scared? Calm? Vengeful? Understanding?
I will never know.
They brought you back in, so we could say good bye.
Your eyes stared at me, unblinking.
Gently, I reached to close them.
But each time, they sprung open once more.
Defeated, I covered you, so you could have peace.
Why did you journey so far to meet us,
o passing angel,
only to say good bye?
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
All too often, we will title
books that won't be wrote, just idle.
Everybody wants to call it,
when it will be nothing, stalled, it
won't have pages written steady,
won't have concepts, base or heady.
It it's read, call yourself lucky,
many writers remain stuck, see
writer's block, the crafty murd'ress
takes your drive and quick submerges.
It'll stay none, it won't take form,
just grows cold, it never stays warm.
To succeed, you have to conquer
all your fears, and don't you squander
any effort on convincing
yourself that you're no good, wincing
from the pain of dreams abandoned,
are you real, or just a stand-in?
Fear will grab you, if you're lonely.
Gentle tendrils sigh "if only",
only what? You gripped the paper?
Grabbed the pen, became the maker?
If you leave your dreams to idle,
all you'll have will be the Title.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
We were on opposing coasts.
A roaring current separated us.
You were far enough away that I
couldn't see what you were doing,
Obscured by the mist as you were,
But close enough that I could see
you were doing something.
I didn't know what it was,
but then your arrow
struck me in the chest.
And so I bled.
I was first overcome with confusion,
then anger,
then sadness,
but eventually I understood.
When you were so far away,
this was the only way
you could touch me.
I would survive this,
and I would heal.
I cannot hear you,
but if you are apologizing
for hurting me,
you are forgiven.
After all, my dear...
I can shoot arrows too.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
What is it that a fleeting sparrow'd say,
if he'd been gifted with our language true?
Could any one of us hazard a way,
to think of what he'd say after he flew?
I think that if we tried to guess we'd miss,
but nonetheless I'll give a proper try.
My best assumption would be only this:
"I'm tired, but regardless, I must fly."
Can any look upon a soaring bird,
and think that flight must be a hefty weight?
A man would think the notion is absurd,
in chasing freedom, wings could never sate.
The gift of flight must be a nasty curse.
With proper legs, their lives wouldn't be worse.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
i didn't see it
flash of light against the coat
i didn't see it
bone crunching against metal
i didn't see it
legs splayed, spinning away across the asphalt
i didn't see it
tires squealing as the car came to a stop alongside
i didn't see it
shattered ribs heaving with labored breath
i didn't see it
leg twitching feebly against the unforgiving road
i didn't see it
waiting outside in the cold for cars to pass
i didn't see it
crossing the road with shaking steps
i didn't see it
standing over the carcass, its eyes glossed over
i didn't see it
apologizing again and again to ears that no longer heard
i didn't see it
touching its wet pelt, caked with dirt and blood
i didn't see it
lifting it first gently then with whatever strength i had
i didn't see it
feeling the skeleton splinters move under the skin as i pulled it
i didn't see it
resting its head against a plowed snowbank
i didn't see it
pool of red by my feet swirled with the snow melt
i didn't see it
opening the door and sitting down, breathing heavily
i didn't see it
blood and dirt on my hands, gripping the steering wheel
i didn't see it
that night, i closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
and do you know what happened then?
i saw it.
i can't stop seeing it.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
The spider has chosen her lair. A mere tangle of branches, she alone realizes the potential held. Thread by thread, the foundations are woven.
An inch.
The fruit of her first hour of labor is a mere speck within the cage of twigs. The removal of even a single thread would unravel all. Despite the fragility of her creation, she persists.
Two inches.
Without pause, she brings forth the creation as it is held within her mind. A fly, without warning, smashes into the framework. But her web holds strong, and the fly is promptly wrapped and set aside.
Four inches.
No longer insignificant or fragile, the expansion of her dream continues unabated. Its full complexity known only to her, the web spreads not only wide but deep. A labyrinth, from which the only escape is to be wrapped and set aside.
One foot.
Her tiny body is dwarfed by the scale of the construction, yet her pace still quickens. Each thread wrapped around countless branches, each branch twisted and bent. The core shifts in color as a beam of sunlight attempts to penetrate to the ground below.
Ten feet.
A bird flies into the web, and its motion is abruptly arrested. The inexorable spider crawls onto the bird, ignoring the sheer difference in size. The bird's wings are stretched apart by the threads added, a flag and a warning.
Thirty feet.
The sunlight catches the ever-expanding structure as it twists in the wind. Distressed chirping, croaking, buzzing, a symphony of pain. At the center of it all, she weaves on.
One hundred feet.
The surrounding greenery is shrouded in a wispy cloud which blocks the sun. People, terrified by the sudden appearance, gather to witness it, uncomprehending. A child stumbles into the web, and the spider pulls its limbs apart.
One quarter mile.
The heavy tan trucks roll in, the area long since cordoned off and any trespassers removed. The lever is tested, and the fuel line is connected, before the device is ignited. The flamethrower operator lets loose a jet of liquid heat. The web burns to ashes in mere minutes, taking with it all the limbs and wings. The buzzing, persistent cacophony of pain is replaced by a rising crackle.
Zero.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC