by Shaun Lawton
We all know there's nothing left of our dream. When it comes right down to it, not enough of us made it. We who are left are the few, the stranded. Lost on the shores of a rapidly changing cosmic tide. Once together strong in our own respective packs, now strewn far apart with very few left together, nearby or in between. It's as if the natural tendency for gravitational vortices to be generated around every living body across the scale, from the microcosmic on up, makes you wonder if our own solar system could be considered but a cell in a gigantic macromolecular construct fleshing out the skeleton of time.
It leads one to begin thinking about the possibilities behind the idea of resurrecting the land with mycelium feeding on the decomposition of organic matter. Striking the circle of life's spark into ignition with the Sun and ushering in the blossoming of a self sustained life cycle. Things most people don't take the time to think about. After all, what good will it do after you learn it? The cycles of the quartermoon sky will sweep on by for incalculable degrees, adding to the feeling we're really traveling far into the distance of what we've come to consider as outer space. Only in time may we find the answer to have rested with us all along. That time becomes the space we're rooted in, each to one another's oblivion.
By then it will be far too late for any one of us. Who knows where we'll be, those of us left alone in our own homes respectively. Each one facing the inevitable outcome. At that point it shouldn't matter anymore. Drive out for a couple of hours toward the northern shores of the nearest lake. There you will find a hill of volcanic rocks or a spiral jetty coiling inward on a sandy shore with pink puddles strewn about in a labyrinthine assembly stretched to the horizon where the blue sky's almost entirely erased by the cloudbank piling up into the air. Perhaps we will think of each other for a moment right then and there and smile.
