An ending.
An end to pretending and sweeping certainty under the rug.
It's just recognition that the wheel keeps on turning.
With such grace and poise, even as she scorches the earth
she destroys dreams with charm and a smile that tickles my ear.
I guess I'll find out what forever feels like.
But if Armageddon goes down in the morning,
if fire pours out from heaven and hell, and the Devil himself
seeks me out, howling on the battlefield, I can at least say:
meh, I've seen worse. I already got burned.
And not even he could think that nothing follows an ending.
Say, like the big bang in reverse; all these comets,
and constellations, kindled stars and circling planets,
all flirting in cosmic courtship. All the gas giants, white dwarfs
and the timid, potent black holes. Do you really think
one day they'll all be swallowed, sucked into infinity?
Wherever would they go at the end of days?
What would happen to irresistible, cogent gravity?
Surely you can't cram away all the sprightly atoms
of the cosmos into such a small thing as The End.
Not now the void is bursting at the seams.
Even if it did fit, don't they say it would catapult
right back out, big and bold as ever?
If I were a betting man, I'd take a punt on that.
Because if favourite books stay with you
then do they ever really end? Do you ever
turn the page on a furious, canny character
or his improbable journey home for love -
no, not even that - just a glimpse, a hope for love.
That's why you fall for an idealist while he labours at reality.
I could lasso the moon and drink the sea
and flatten the earth searching for you.
Waiting. And it's okay that the world is ending
It's alright, it's fine. Because it happened before.
The sky fell in and the celestial sphere floundered,
wobbled on it's axis, but orbit was maintained.
And the sun and moon continued their dance at distance.
Funny, when you think, as the planet cracked
they weren't frightened. The population of two
still found time to discuss the merits of film and song
and the local news. The universe wouldn't have heard
lovers torn apart but only the chatter of birdsong
and sunlight filtering through the clouds once more.
I don't even mind the clouds now. In fact they reassure.
They are your thoughts smiling down on me
saying we're not crazy or don't be such a drama queen
and the rain is your tears. I decide that you cry oceans for me
and write your best stuff as you go with the wind.
Away from me. But still circling the planet.
I see your thoughts everyday and send my mind up
to mingle. Oh, you look a little brighter today or
come on, doofus, don't cry. And I never, ever say
the wrong thing. Except one day, you will kick out
at a dark cumulonimbus and send thunder rattling down.
But I won't even mind that. I'll watch the light show
and hold your hand when you're drained of spark.
Your waters nourish this dry, broken land.
Still here when I need you. Looking out for me.
Hard to imagine that summer will ever emerge
from the depths of winter. But the sun and the rains,
the clouds and blue sky, they all inexorably return.
I'm sorry but your long-term weather forecast will never
make the newspaper. It's already gone to print.
Speaking of weather, it's coming down like hell today.
It makes want to write a soundtrack to catastrophe
I mean, there's the music of water and The Weatherman
but perhaps I could score some pleasing heartache.
Overlay some straining string and raindrop beats.
I feel a deep, shivering bass in the pit of my stomach.
I have it on good authority that people should chase happiness,
follow its faint trail and hunt it down like a great, rare beast,
cut off its head and stick it on the wall. Otherwise, one day
grown-ups might ask you Mum, why does that empty space
above the mantelpiece reflect so brightly in your eye?
and what will you advise if they ever catch the scent?
You told me mothers want their children to be happy.
Not that I question the bravery of martyrs. Admirable, no doubt.
People once told me I was brave for going into orbit.
Ooh, I think you're dead brave they said, but nobody knew
I was taking the safer option. I had done the numbers.
I only aimed for the stratosphere while all the aurorae,
shooting stars and solar flares went unexplored, far above me.
And look, they're still up there, regretfully smouldering.
Gah! Do I ever wish life was a story I could write
instead of watching a distant disaster unfolding on the telly.
Everyone likes a flawed hero, but a little airbrushing
wouldn't go amiss. Just a touch less prone to crippling weakness
and a princess whose ropes wouldn't beg not to be cut.
I suppose a happy ending would be somewhat less credible.
Some say that fairy tales are mere deceptions
constructs setting an unlikely bar and
fattening hope while starving reality to death.
But my optimism got topped up. An historian
might argue that they're folktales. For sure,
dressed up in silk and steel, but just fact from a distance.
And I am a student of history. I once thought it taught me
what was wrong with everything these days.
But yesterday gave me the most valuable lesson:
that true love exists - that's right - and it's a stubborn thing.
You can be told so in songs or poems and it might seem obvious.
But now I understand those old men in movies that say I just knew...
So love is real and forever, yep. And you can't argue;
It's been irrefutably proven by our historical study.
The results are in and quite conclusive, n'est pas?
Alright, you can doubt Science and God or whatever
or The Universe at work or whatever. But you can't escape
the experience of History; it just happened to us both.
That's definite. A tangible certainty among the hypotheticals.
History repeats; and that's a kind of open ending.
