I woke up this morning not aware of what day it is. Friday. Friday only matters in the office—some synthesized way to organize infinite time–but what is time really? Sunrises and sunsets?
What’s a weekend to the mountains?
We become so reliant on the umbilical USB chord of blood and resources and then, Smack! We are a baby ejected from a metal, cold womb of wires and fluorescent buzzing.
Birthed. unsuited. crying.
Why do our first breaths feel like choking? Too much air, too much choice. Too many ways to fill time. Too many empty hours. Too much ‘i.’
Perhaps this is what the ties and shiny cuff links are for. A uniform fit to evade time to think about the eternity inside such a small body–such a small cubicle.
Perhaps it’s too much to ponder, so we turn to monitors–constantly transmitting data so there is no silence.
And in this pause we feel the heavy, vast nothingness. No thing and every thing. Do your hands know where they fit?
It is in this terminal velocity of mid-twenties angst that we free fall our way into prayer–
Show me the way through nothing, and I shall give you everything.
Is the 55th floor of the skyscraper intended to mock the big breath inhale of the man who bloody knuckled, scrap kneed, sore muscles his way to the top of the mountain and exhales “THIS, THIS, IS GOD”
I intend to find out.
This post was originally published on KeyairaKelly.com.
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