Dark Thoughts
Perhaps a new poetry collection is upon me. But the confines of the ship stifle the free thought a mind requires to draw out the fire of poems from the unknowable.
Can a man truly know himself? Or is his own folds and lines below the surface of a barrier he can't penetrate?
Man is finite, knowable, just as the universe, we now know, is finite and knowable. But perhaps there is a part of man hidden beyond the veil of himself that is infinite, unknowable, and broken inherently that guides his pithy little actions. Just as, in the universe, there is something infinite, unknowable, hidden beyond the edges of darkness, waiting in the gaps, the cracks, the hideous uncertainties. But unlike man, it is not broken. It is deadly efficient. It is entropy, chaos, the forces apathetic that reduce all things to dust.
Look upon my works, ye mighty, he screams into the glittering dark, and when he has explored all the edges of his prison, he will find the key yet eludes him.
There is no key, for this is no prison. This is all that man can know. But all that man can know is not all that is, and when we learn that deadly lesson, will we let it rest? Or will we destroy ourselves in yet another attempt to know?
Knowing is dangerous. We must hide the things we know in the things we don't, so we can forget we know we know them.
Can a man truly know himself? Or is his own folds and lines below the surface of a barrier he can't penetrate?
Man is finite, knowable, just as the universe, we now know, is finite and knowable. But perhaps there is a part of man hidden beyond the veil of himself that is infinite, unknowable, and broken inherently that guides his pithy little actions. Just as, in the universe, there is something infinite, unknowable, hidden beyond the edges of darkness, waiting in the gaps, the cracks, the hideous uncertainties. But unlike man, it is not broken. It is deadly efficient. It is entropy, chaos, the forces apathetic that reduce all things to dust.
Look upon my works, ye mighty, he screams into the glittering dark, and when he has explored all the edges of his prison, he will find the key yet eludes him.
There is no key, for this is no prison. This is all that man can know. But all that man can know is not all that is, and when we learn that deadly lesson, will we let it rest? Or will we destroy ourselves in yet another attempt to know?
Knowing is dangerous. We must hide the things we know in the things we don't, so we can forget we know we know them.
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