04.4.007

"Spatiotemparalysis"

I hear, in my mind, all of this music-- and it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart.

It's been 2d 11h 38m, according to that small window next to the digitized you. Corin reminds me that God is a number.

You could be any of an infinite number of places right now, the central role of any one of a million-million possible existences. Statistically speaking, the chance that I may know which one of those million-million you are living right now is close to zero; the Heisenberg uncertainty principle states that the simultaneous position and momentum of a particle can never be certain-- I can either spot your location at any given instant, or I can determine your speed and direction, but not both at once. This small window is leaving it up to me to decide which of these possible presents or futures might be the right one.

How can I be expected to sit here with any measure of resolve when in my head I see a million images of your death and your suffering, with a million more filled with contentment or mediocrity or happiness-- all brimming with overwhelming uncertainty-- crashing into one another, and breaking like a surf against the very last sand-castle barrier of my inner self? How do I keep these things from tumbling out of me into the sun's light and the world of the categorical imperative, where they may gorge themselves upon Truth and swallow me in turn?

I can sing through my fingers-- though the worth of a singer is nothing, I'm told.

I can sing all these things to you; like a siren, scream these thoughts to the heavens and the wide-open sea in hopes that you'll hear.
I can draw you to this shore--
this, the existence and the world that I know--
and hope that you are not so deafened by the thundering sound
(which has broken the last of my sand-castle dreams)
as I have been so blinded by its comprising water-droplet images
(reflecting truth, the light of the sun)
as to crash upon the million treacherous rocks.
They and the respective futures they hold for my One have left me marooned on this sea-washed shore.

Let me sail, let me sail, let me crash upon your shore.

We two can do nothing better than harmonize with our million-breadth fingers between us. Like merpeople beneath the water, fingers separating our dual stores of singing singularity into plural realities which catch on our eyelashes as they-- and the music they together contain-- rise to join some greatness above us; each bubble a window into one of a million-million beings.

I can see these parts of you through the gaps in between your fingers. And when my own digits (God is a number) pass before my own eyes, you peek out and see gaps of me between the static and the wires. You can hear the music emanating from the infinite space in between ten fragments of perfect solidity-- what we have been taught to think is reality. You see the remainder between five sets of perfectly-balanced digits-- equal and opposite one another, and opposite your own (God is a number).

The digits pass before your eyes before they have been given a chance at meeting the other side of the equation. Equal digits on opposite sides will go to dissolution, as grains of salt in water, and reduce to zero. The answer-- call it a "solution"-- lies between. The two of us; the sum of our respective selves, as remainders; underlying.

Gazes meet. Fingers dissolve.

God is a number.