Quarter-Life Crisis
The creation of a galaxy is a messy thing; stars pouring forth from collapsing rivulets and crashing clouds of hot gas. I hear voices warp through the thin drywall and feel murmurs of conversations: Martiny’s for drinks? is Ella coming? you won’t believe it. what did she say to that? Is this okay? oh there’s a crack in the ceiling. i don’t know where to go from here. This is the age when lovers are found in your friend’s friend’s brother’s small angular kitchen, and there is nothing more enthralling than a crowd, than lack of space, or liminal time. Getting lost in a cluster of decisions and disasters slam and spin into each other. Hope it all lands somewhere, it must, and yet that terrifies you all the same. Look. do you see us in the waning park light? circling each other like birds in our desperate hopes, our feigned detachment — do you feel the forces colliding? the mass exploding, shearing with a gravitational force that starts and destructs worlds? At some point our brutish and callous energy, our furnace of possibilities will undoubtedly cool into something less lethal, more gentle and agreeable to life; We will swallow our own beginnings, our own origins. Possess only a dim memory of what we once were, pure buzzing atoms that could not have enough.
