We are none of us too good enough: as runners, we pant and heave heavy thoughts as we beat our way across a nondescript finish line, and the bold spectators hungrily jeer us on. Theirs is a fascinating psychology, primal wilderness pulsing underneath a well spoken, rational mind. They command us to coldly dissect and peer into the mystical lab charts. Let there be a charmless existence, or a dullness that aches: We will find meaning to this mess. Sputnik chortled its way to the skies leaving behind a world of uneasy quiet, bated breath, and a desperate rush towards the sciences. Like a pink dusted dawn on an empty highway, waiting for something - to plunge into life. That powerful energy that devours us all. Sputnik sped away and we ran forward we runners tripped but hurtled on, on towards the Math and Science Omnipotent, omnipresent: crack our hearts and freeze them. Cryogenically save our souls; perhaps we will then be able to analyze the specific compounds that react - label, identify, and pack them away into neat little jars, holed into long laboratory corridors. Will our dissected hearts then be able to convey their heart-felt condolences to their neighbor, the dying rat? I kick a stone along its path, as I wander aimlessly in a national park, does it really matter where? The stone has endured the burden of a human footstep for generations past, and more to come. But it never tells our secrets and I hope that it never will. Answers - we race towards them because the spectators drag us on - projecting hopes of glory, of contentment, of peace. I fear what will come when we have the answers. Mystery spreads her soft cotton shawl over us, gathering us in, and comforting us with words of gentle half-truths, and innocent lies. Ancient mystery knows our character better than we do the question is: does she protect us from the answers, or is she protecting the answers from us? Viruses, gifts, parasites, human beings, whatever the latest euphemism for our kind is, hear: why complete the finish line? The answers are frighteningly within reach now; do we really want it? Runners, stop this frantic marathon. Seize your spectator by the hand and gaze at Sputnik together: marveling at its beauty, basking in its impossibility.
authored by Nes when she was perhaps 15
Tuesday, January 1, 1980