Tuesday, August 14, 2018

What has been broken cannot be fixed

by Notumbus Bumbus (writer), Where I am right now., December 04, 2011

They say we are the stuff of stars, but whether glowing brightly, or burned to coal, how can we ever measure up to such grand designs?

It is possible things began at the atomic level

Before achieving an organic exchange

Leading to the unique ability

To cast images and voices through the air

Like so much pollen, an apt metaphor, I suppose,


And it may indeed be likely the demarcation

Occurred during a hiccup, or a dream

Of falling, perhaps, or merely the fear

A mother felt about this change inside her,

And things, beginning to form, altered course.


What was straight is thus bent,

What whole is made unwelcome.

All things flow from a singular act,

Unseeable, unsayable, blameless and opaque.

This is how journeys begin, the long meander.


All else flows from that moment,

Where space is warped, time seeks a tangent,

And the outcome leads to the next act, and the next,

And there is no reason, no gods to rail against,

Despite the deep and growing desire to do so.

Broken things seek repair, our eyes

Seek perfection, form

Unencumbered by random factors,

An ideal based in absurdity. You, I, all

Contain a flaw, a barrier to our vision.


Where in this am I? Uncontained

By earlier promises, false assurances,

I punctuate this sentence I am serving

With growls of rage against a thing that does not exist:

Impotent against my own loss of innocence.


Seek not the superman. Caped flight

Is a dangerous illusion, you cannot arrive,

You are not invulnerable, you cannot see

Through the walls of variation, creative chaos,

The horse you rode in on. You merely are.


What then to do, through the veil of tears?

Through decades of pain and regret, through

The failures of logic, you will not become that astronaut,

You will not rise above, except perhaps shed the anger,

That holds the heart in an iron grip, and breaks the body down.


We are partial, fragmented, slivers of probability.

We can see the stars and dream their spectrum,

But cannot touch their brilliance – they recede

At the speed of light, of actuality,

They wink from the deep past at this cosmic joke.


Built from dust, from the three laws, from fragments

Of dreams set in motion before any one of us

Rose from the mud, dripping trial and error,

We fall before we rise, hold to belief without assurances,

Broken even while believing we are whole.


Lie now in the soft grasses, raise your hand against the blue,

Trace your life as a map you will follow,

A dream you will offer to who you may become.

Rise and walk, without regrets, into the distances

You cannot know, though they await your arrival.


What has been broken cannot be fixed,

Only worn until it must be put away,

It’s patina no hedge against the ravages of time.

We are only vagabonds, seeking the way

Back to the soft dust of the stars, always before our eyes.


January, 2010

About the Writer

Notumbus Bumbus is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.
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