Apollo
August Ellington |
I stare at the sun. Incandescent rays drown the world and all I see is the sun. A white hot ball of gas. Life itself. My retinas are scorched, and I can not stare at the sun. I close my eyes. I see digital artifacts, vivid technicolour abstractions shifting without purpose or conclusion. I stand in the sun. Comforting warmth beating down on my skin. I feel peace, I am surrounded by abundance. My flesh is boiling, and I can not stand in the sun.
I can’t stop thinking about god. Or God? If there is a god, gods, or God, what does that mean? A religious explanation is unlikely. Holy forces capable of wielding unimaginable power, molding the universe to their liking. Nature in its impossible intricacy, all of the pieces coming together at the perfect moment for life to occur, for sentience. Mired in bureaucracy. Would a celestial being, able to comprehend every insignificance of existence simultaneously, across time’s totality, care about rules? Would it construct a cosmic constitution? In the face of nebulae that dwarf the Earth by a factor of a million, are abortions the preeminent evil? A natural conclusion would be the absence of any such entity. But I can’t embrace the cold comfort of randomness. Of unfettered chaos bringing us into existence. Of course, I would like to, but there’s a problem. Something shattered my reality, and I still haven’t picked up the pieces. Every shard of glass slicing my hands as I try to confront, to understand, what the fuck is going on.
In August, I dreamt that I walked through Times Square and a man in a Spider-Man costume called me racist. In November, I walked through Times Square and a man in a Spider-Man costume called me racist. Time folded in on itself, every preconceived notion about the nature of reality had burned away. My friends were ahead of me. I was surrounded by tourists, locals, mascots, LCD billboards. But in that moment, I was alone. I was horrified. My mind became lawless, unburdened by my death grip on reality. For months I did not speak of it. For weeks I tried to ignore it. But it happened again. It happened so many times I lost track. Maybe it was a glitch that I alone was plagued by. Maybe it was coincidence, the sheer power of the human mind predicting a dozen or so random events with perfect accuracy. Maybe it was god. Or God? Over and over again, I would dream, and then it would happen. No interpretation, or vague feelings of something wrong or something good. Like a recording sent back in time, a film for an audience of Me. As though I were trying to leave the cave, staring through a crack that I couldn’t quite breach.
After growing up in a half-baked attempt at a Christian household, I never really understood the idea of worship. Of prayer. It all seemed silly, going to church maybe twice a month. My father was completely apathetic to any ideas regarding divinity. My mother would perform esoteric Buddhist chants while driving me to school and then tell me to never follow that path. And that tarot was demonic. And to never be polyamorous, because that was also demonic? It really cemented that much of her spiritual guidance was completely meaningless to me as an adolescent who just wanted to watch cartoons and play video games. I found religion, while not some illogical aberrance, to be personally pointless. Life was, as far as I was aware, good. Then I suffered. Then I persevered. Then I went to New York. Then I revisited God.
Staring out windows, praying for answers. Or an internship. I began to feel powerful, like all of the esoterica I loved to gawk at may have had a potency I had only just become privy to. Once I wished for money to fall from the sky, as one does when they’re chronically broke. Then I dreamt I found a wad of cash on the ground. Then I found nine hundred dollars on the ground. But I refused to embrace the unknown. I was too scared of finding something even harder to understand. I was afraid of god. Of the gods. Of God. Afraid of anything existing that could warp the world on a whim. Afraid that I could somehow invoke a miraculous sledgehammer that would decimate all logic or reasoning. So I ignored the dreams. I ceased wishing. And it stopped. And I suffered. And I began to forget. Every now and again, I wonder what it all meant. If it’s possible to reclaim the feeling that I could transcend my material existence. That there was more than my flesh.
I stare at the moon. A soft glow illuminates the glade, the woods still coated in darkness. A distant satellite, accompanying the Earth in the void. My eyes see clearly; the craters, the stars, the clouds. I keep my eyes open and see the world, if but a microcosm. I stand in the moonlight. I feel the wind cool my skin, the grass cushioning my feet. Only in my soul do I feel the moon, as it reflects light without heat. I feel peace, I am surrounded by abundance. I can sleep in the moonlight.
