Rosencrantz Sunbursts

Vulgar I know, I hope some day I’m a looked back upon and thought upon in a certain way that people think on older folks gone by in years, long dead but still alive in the mines of memory, I’ll only be alive for as long as I am remembered, not in the books, not in the histories, but that last of me will remain with the remains of remembrances in the remembranes of the elderly, once children in my own elderly arms, and once dead these wizened children will take with them the last of my ashes, a legacy passed down yet forgotten, I will be as the tree that was not the mother of the tree before you, nor the tree before that, I will be as the tree whom is at your feet, and forgotten and remembered only as dust and dirt and sand and mud. I will be entirely without form, entirely without mind or space or sense or time, without anything that made me what others, once, long ago, had fondly recalled made up a man called “me.” I am less than the dust, I am the sun stars dead after a long supernova night goodbye leaves a dark space in it’s place for millennia to come. I am merely mere electrons firing off into wormholes, here today, gone yesterday, bouncing off the freckles of children in the summer sun light.

I am always, and eternally, reminded of death, as a means, not an end, to which, through which I might pass on to higher vibrations, greater glories, a higher evolution, a greater organization of my infinite parts. I am reminded, constantly, incessantly, of the little voice that calls in the back of your life, a gentle rapping, as if someone were tapping, upon the chamber door to my eternal wellspring. I am much more a spiritual wonderer than wanderer, wondered not wandered, wonder no wander, won no wand


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