The Cycle

Joy filled the chambers of the body. The young gods went out into the street. They walked out beneath the roof of a sacred palace, raised by the mind of a wise father. The heartbeats, like the sound of an alarm bell, louder than the crash of a furious thunder. It tears, wanting to break free, throwing itself in spasms against thin skin. Oh, how much light and worldly happiness the body, alas, has chained in irons. How much love, how much divine bliss lies buried under the deep snows of forgetting. I'd give anything — become a wanderer across the earth in search of answers that actually matter. Who am I, and why? Where from, and where to? Where's the one who granted us this miracle? In each of us there's a grain of the Almighty. The flock is consciousness, living in every bird. The meaning of the flight is in the feeling of it, in the moments that overflow a life. Science gives birth to countless theories: descendants of apes, an echo of sound, the leftover debris of some great explosion, a cleverly engineered Lego set. Whatever you dream up — it's all so interesting. The main thing is the crowd shouldn't get bored. The only real point is that no answer is needed. It's terrifying, sitting by the broken washtub, in a puddle. By evening, the body, paired with exhaustion, goes looking for an open seat at the bar. Instead of a clean, comfortable bed — night-time words: "I love you." "I'll buy it." "Let's fly." But after all that flying, it's time to land — and that's never quite as easy to accept. Alas, there's no leaving this tired-out temple behind. The gloomy gods head home.