Were I truly enlightened,
I would abandon the strange practice of primitive religion
in this modern world.
I would find contentment in the belief that somewhere along the evolutionary chain,
random chance was merciful enough to spare my ancestor's cell blob.
I would look to the empty cosmos, and be happy that the star vomit
somehow emerged from the dust and swelled to life.
I should be able to glare at the wide sky and feel not feel lost,
because I would be content to be an accident, a moment,
a random thing of flesh and bone for a moment.
I would find immortality in knowing that my flesh decays,
fragments into emptiness, and returns to the earth,
same as the rotting corpse of the monkey,
same as the manure of the dinosaur,
same as the human tears.
An endless chain, unbroken, indifferent, spiraling back to the same cycles
of birth, brittle moment, and death, forged between the dodging of teeth
,and the savage fight for another day.
What some may see as a cycle, I see as an endless noose.
And, yet, something inside me refuses to believe that
I'm the product of lucky monkeys, lightening striking the mud puddle,
bright thought repackaged as fact. The verdict has yet to be handed down.
And the idols of human wisdom keep collapsing,
their glory dimming fainter than the glimmer of understanding.
The edge of starlight keeps unveiling the frustating infinity
of what lays beyond.
We spend our lifetimes on the little earth,
constructing ships that can only reveal more of what we don't know.
We stare at the stars and we hunger for them.
Somewhere inside, we know that we are more than this.