Abstracts #1

Quiet evenings

Cold hands

Blinking cursors

And a plethora of thoughts clamouring for freedom at the darkening edges of the abyss, screeching and screaming for the light. But perhaps they are better off where they are. Because the light is blinding, and the heat scorching, searing the exposed and beguiling the hidden with allurements of relief.

But no rest for the weary, right?

Suns will rise and suns will set. The earth turns and turns, in a mad, eternal spin of vapid vertigo.

And somewhere in the mutinous moments between sinking days and dawning nights, eternity is born.

It’s a calm and undisturbing moment of revelation, like the birth of an unwanted child who arrives quietly, mature in its sense to oblige the cringing family with hearty pretensions of non-existence.

Thus it is. That eternity lasts shorter than the most inconspicuous of existences on earth. It clings precariously to the precipice of time, trying out nudge its way through the stampede of seconds, woven out of fleeting memories, tinctured with effervescent nuances and brought to life by the unconscious disavowal of the vicarious footprints it leaves behind.

Eternity is a weed.

It needs no nurturance, no care. It swells into being in the crevices of cognizance and remains there, an unexpectedly pretty child with mischievous eyes gleaming through errant curls, lurking in the shadows. Feeding on the scraps of oblivion, it grows, slowly, slowly… until one fine day when its existence can no longer be stashed away in the cobwebbed recesses.

Eternity partakes of the most mindlessly inane.

Unlike popular notions, it is not clothed like royalty, sheathed in flowing purple and gold. Rather, it is quite the pauper. Inconspicuous and unobtrusive, self-effacing in its insignificance.

Eternity craves no embellishments. The larger-than-life feel of the word falls flat in the face of the inconsequence of its conception. Wedged in a crack between the constructions of time and the transformation of physical dimensions, it brings no ecstatic upheaval of emotions to those who delude themselves into believing that eternity is magical.

The magic of eternity is only a myth. For in the ultimate ebb and flow of time, it is dissolved into a flimsy mental construct capable only of adorning the whimsical fancies of the mind and little else.