What I wrote in 2004:

They still ride in the lock of time, breath­ing with tril­lions of oth­ers across three wide dimen­sions and a fourth still unbro­ken in one direc­tion, and they know they will die but will never die, for this is the feel­ing that has moved every man from the first human stir­ring of heart in the first chest in the first for­got­ten pri­mor­dial wild. Before there were paint­ings on cave walls there was this. After words have died for­ever from the uni­verse, this will remain.

Jektres. Renetta. His and Rena’s rejected fetus. Jek’s seed in him once and his in Jek. They are in this as well. With Link and Nik and Sholi, and every­one else that may be before them in their lives, and those around them now, fus­ing in bliss and flesh and thought. His mother and father. His uncle and his aunts and his other uncle. Everyone who has ever been com­plete in any other. Uncounted tril­lions and tril­lions of cells divid­ing and form­ing and shim­mer­ing and spread­ing. He and Link have joined the throb­bing choir of life. Chloroplast tak­ing in light. Sperm enter­ing egg. Harmony and coun­ter­point, melody and syn­co­pa­tion. Song. Song. Song.

What I wrote tonight:

In one moment every­thing that is came into being. Gravity, that mys­te­ri­ous force, jelled hydro­gen and in a flash, the first light of exis­tence was, fiat lux, dark­ness warmed by pro­tic life.

Stars con­densed, glowed, fused, were. They were abrupt and mas­sive, vast and alone in the time­less space of dark­ness, hearts beat­ing in black­ness, burst­ing the bound­aries of noth­ing­ness by their furi­ous will to be.

Eruptions, explo­sions, heavy mat­ter flung into the depth­less dark, and more, and more, this deep and puls­ing space filled now, car­bon and cal­cium, oxy­gen and iron, pumped end­lessly into the scat­tered jew­els that shim­mered, watch­ing, waiting.

And there, just there, a small bright light, con­den­sa­tion ring­ing it, just there, heat and warmth and enough mois­ture, not too far, not too close, enough, enough.

There, on that packed sphere of stars’ hearts, the mol­e­cules wove, and wove again, and there they learned how to make more of them­selves, and they evolved.

Colors, and cara­paces, and eyes to see the col­ors, and limbs to grasp the cara­paces, and the sea, the salt tears of the mourned stars, cra­dled them and let them be, float, live.

They swam, they twined, they were.

Singing, star-​​stuff, they were.

They met, they knew one another before they knew time, they found one another and made more voices, lifted the cho­rus, and the stars at last saw them­selves, and knew them­selves, and joined bod­ies and linked hands and sang in joy and bliss.

Eternity found light in its own eyes. And depth­less, time­less cre­ation held its breath as one hand found another, and touched it, and knew love at last.

You are my light, my life and my star.

I always knew it was there. I always knew it was there.


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