Monday, August 22, 2005An excerpt from my thoughts.
I am sitting here in a dark room, alone, with a solitary pinpoint of light held in the palm of my hands. I turn the music on, and close my eyes, and as the music fills the room, the light and warmth fills me.
How can I describe, how I feel: this mixture of tragedy of joy of beauty of incredible loneliness of sadness and even, of despair? It swirls inside me, there is more beauty than I have ever known, more love than I have ever felt; my heart is beating and my boundaries are dissolving--yet even at this moment I feel my tears of infinite weight drip-drop-dropping upon the ground.
This moment, I am holding the hands of a ghost, over a small candle on a dark Arctic night. The ghost is from the past, from the future, from possibilities unrealized, from dreams unseen. I cannot let go of these hands. They turn the soft unwritten snow into a foreign chill, and the dark hue of night into a forever untamed beast. I look into his invisible eyes and I can feel my warmth leaving me, a string of warmth, a line of sight, pulled away, undoing my heart of yarn and yearning.
The candle-flame is burning my hands, but I cannot let go. Yes, there is so much beauty even now. I am trembling, my ashes are crumbling away, but oh! how wonderfully they float, dancing in the wind, sprinkles against white snow. Softly away from me.
Sprinkles, the dots of probability that helped me think of a way to measure Williams Syndrome predisposition without complex calculations of 3d space and object rendering. How beautiful, a simple two dimensional way to measure a one dimensional change in a three dimensional object, in four dimensional space!
Sprinkles, interacting like a harmony and melody of infinite complexity, a symphony or a chord, floating through the air. Landing and rising sporadically and fantastically.
Sprinkles, a fine layer of dust on top of an unseen surface--to write on with fingertips, and observe--fine dust lying so gently, a sleeping dust. A dust of infinite possibilities.
Of motion, like atoms swaying against a cell.
Of time, a perfect model of of expanse and distance and passage.
Of art, finer than the thinnest stroke of the brush.
Of the the rays of light that peak and poke through the ashes like twinkles of stars through interplanetary dust.
Of music, waves forming sound forming emotion forming peaks and troughs within the wrenching of my heart.
Of life, like pollen spreading from flower to flower--the dust of life, the ashes of death, the ashes of life, the dust of death.
Of joy, of despair, of love, of hate, and of the best of times, the worst of the times, the age of wisdom, the age of foolishness, the epoch of belief, the epoch of incredulity, the season of Light, the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, the winter of despair, everything, nothing, Heaven, the other way, good, evil, the king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, the king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face.
How can I describe, how I feel: this mixture of truth and tragedy. I am so, utterly, completely, alone. So, utterly, completely, alone.
Except I am not. I have this pinpoint of light with me.
//Michael Gao
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