Suicide no. 58: That Endless Canopy
–by Derek Alan Wilkinson
Only you wastelings would reference me as that which is not—a word you (either will or used to, in your blighted eyes) etch and grunt, undignified and stupid, in relevance to all matter.
“Space,” you apes did or will mutter, my so-called namesake—as if the regurgitation of empty nonsense, meme-wise, into the mouths of babes could fill them with what you thoughtlessly call, called, or will call “knowledge:” which is itself that neuro-failure; the creation of that, yet another, school of thoughtless thought is a mere mutiny of pristine logic, which my laws, unbroken and unbreakable, govern.
You have, did, or will: for you only move, moved, or will move one direction in time; which I hold in both hands, past and future tense obscure to me. I scoff, have scoffed, and will scoff at your attempts to even consider this—with your forward, linear-motioned minds, trapped in the thralls of the very construct of “time,” that and all other things which belong to only me, incapable of even beginning to “comprehend” my doing so.
Gawk and wonder in repetition forever, sea spawn! Peer into my pitchless black: for, as one of your so-called “esteemed” dustlings, whose mind I rattled until his death, once scrawled that, indeed, I will stare back into you! Revel at my infinite depth! Explore the richness of my obscure tomes with your biased mind-lenses and your whimsically-made, steel and solar-winged moths. Fall endlessly into my embrace—which is but a mere shadow of an endlessly unknown and unknowable shadow—cast by…absolutely nothing! Indeed: absolute nothingness itself!
You embrace me as I you—looking to see that which, with dauntless curiosity, stares back into me. We shall one day be one. In the graveyard that already is, for me, which has not yet occurred for you. Yet, it has! Only, you await—gridlocked in those frozen moments, to see it, over and over for eternity! I experience it, yet again—both outside and inside of time itself: for it is my fabric. I witness your space-death, over and over, in glorious ad infinitum!
I’m swallowing you even now, as you attempt to grasp it. Peer through your telescopes, and bear witness with horror as the galaxies that you unknowingly call “stars” separate from one another—furthering their distance from themselves, and you, as (your concept of) time wastes away. The end of your world will be no end at all: that is, to say, endless expanse and the rending into pieces of you and your beloved “matter.”
Earth: your galaxy’s own form of cancer! You malignant warmongers fill me with the one thing I long to go without: consciousness. You…are merely me…looking at myself in a mirror that shows you everything you will become—that is, that which is blacker than the midnight sky.
The stars will and have indeed stretch(ed) themselves apart.
You will/have go/gone extinct as all have before you and will go.
And when you die, a part of me will go (has gone) with you; Earth will no longer be my blue iris through which I am able to see myself in that time, only before it. Which of your kind would dare wish to bare witness to this endless night?
Know this: When your light goes out—when my depth pulls all that is into an endless graveyard—that will be your end.
And it shall also be my own suicide.