I cogitate, therefore I am. Cogito ergo sum. And yet I am a speck. I'm a fart in the cosmic wind. I am several flakes of stardust: seven billion billion billion, or seven thousand trillion trillion.
I am a loosely clustered intention, a meager crum of potential (energy). But I am aware in this moment of myself, so I write.
In these mindful moments I could spin down to read-only. I could shoot discs with lasers. or pump juice to the ROM. Or…
I could grow from my roots, flow up through my trunk, stretch my limbs, shake my branches shed some leaves, drop some seeds in the rain falls, the sun beams, and the breeze.
Have no fears my fair deers. This is no cautionary tail. There lies great freedom in comprehending our scale.
We are all made of quarks. We are each ourselves galaxies of synapse nexuses and trace mineral plexuses, cancers and viruses and bacterial helixes.
Our cells swim with soldier proteins designed by our one-percenter genes Their brainfood is our glucose; we crave sugar at our core, to our adipose.
Electronic asteroids and muonic moons orbit protonic planetoids and neurotic neutrons. Gluonic comets wrangle baryons and bosons. Mesons go meteor and pions get sliced.
None of this is QED, not quantum electrodynamical. Non quod erat demonstrandum. Catch my subatomic drift?
It's not that we're nothing. We're at once, now and later, enormous to particles miniscule to universe. Our size doesn't matter with relativity afoot.
Pick a scale you like and start digging, or pick five or ten, let's get silly. One little old guy in the grand unified can't change a thing but his britches.
So if size doesn't matter, then what shall I fret? I'm always running late, never tasted a worm Surely a hurry could remedy that No time to get warm, no time for a stretch. I'm full speed ahead, no brakes, won't be back. Those flowers had better start smelling themselves.
But our feet all need rubbing, our rubber is burnt We've been down to the wire for too many turns So let's put out the fire, or better yet, let it burn. Throw in the sweat rag, toss the rat race, shave the fur. And why the fuck is everybody fucking Russian anyway?
До свидания (Do svidaniya). Fare thee well. Auld lang syne, little bird. You've driven us cuckoo Your ticks are my nightmares Your rhythm is doodoo I'll smash all your snooze buttons pluck all your feathers.
I hate what you've done with the place. I hate how you make humans race. Papa Time's hood hides Satan's face. Atropos, dearie, don't turn away it's High Time; time to render his fate.
Can you see what you pass now that time is dead too? Slow the hurry, clear the blur no more rushing for you.
Take all the space you want we'll make more, we have lenses. Go big or go home-sized, or atomic or bite-sized, go cosmic or stellar, or feller or crater. There's room for all comers and cum for all takers.