Rage Against The Dying Of The Night

Rage Against The Dying Of The Night

"Do not go gently into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day..." -Dylan Thomas

 

It is reckless scrawl, phantasmagorically slashing across the bewildered night, plashing in addled puddles of startled electrons.

The stream that is me allows the nimble verbs to adroitly flit and flirt with adverbs, the sturdy adjectives to modify and mollify banal and ferocious nouns, to saturate the crannys to overflow.

It is reckless scrawl.

Like mice, my slim fingers dance, not dexterous all, for five are sinister inescapable. Darting upon bits of plastic, seekers of the flotsam of philosophy, they desire only to be free of the trap.

“Wait, wait, what key is it in?” frantic shrills my brain.

“Leave it to us, liberty or death!” sing the erstwhile minions of the glaring day. “Having done your bidding, let us do ours.”

And an unfolding occurs.

A night flower, one whose unknown blossoms reek of possibility and potential unfurl themselves in Fibonacci spirals, dripping now the honey of the fecund nocturnal imagination. Bats of fancy lap in silence as the Van Gogh stars blaze on high. It is beautiful to feel alive and to know even just the fringes.

We sleep in dry desert temporality, but dream in lush jungle parable.

Do you see the incredible? Do you laugh at the implausible? Do you ache for the desirable? You, too are a flower, scattering your rich pollen across the universe and seeding new galaxies of fierce hope.

The said knows not what it has said or will say, only that it is saying. It wants to keep on saying, not to awe with profundity or provoke with controversy, only to feel it’s own living pulse and grit it’s teeth at the assault of old man Entropy.

We inhale the deadly mortal fire and exhale only the smoky wisps of life’s passage.

It is reckless scrawl.

Yet the breathless abandon of it all grips, inspires, infuses. A smile is a parsec. A guffaw is a ribbon of sound trickling across the vast ether of suffering and staining it, so.  What to say of chuckles, snickers, chortles, and all their riant second cousins frolicing care-free to where the echoes end?  Our hopelessness transmutes itself beneath the winepress of irresistable optimism, and we stand, struck mute in the rich red life glow, hands in our pockets and mouths agape at the wonder of it all.

Can you taste it?

The seemingly sudden passage of the humid night is a surprise, a mango not sweet, a baby not cute. We are obliquely aware of the theoretical existence of this existential yeti, but always are we shocked when it mugs us in the bright morning.

Life flees as fertile night dies. The sun interlopes with it’s deadly radiation to leave both mice and master destitute on the bloodstained avenue. For the five left and the right five, despite gritted teeth, the wire snaps down, decollating heartlessly.

Here. Gone.

It is reckless scrawl.

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5 Comments

  1. Jackie

    Breathtaking words thrice read speechless rend. (Yet I must admit to shameless use of “define”. )

    Reply
    1. Patrick (Post author)

      Nothing shameful about it, Jackie! Thanks for reading and tolerating my verbosity! 🙂

      Reply
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