One Way Trigger

It’s Friday and sunny here. I’m listening to the aural equivalent of psychedelic bubble gum:

and for this one instant in the moment I’m forgetting about limitations and obligations and the inevitable disintegration of mind and body, the creeping death in front of me, and forgetting all the week’s nonsense (like the judge bristling with self-refuting confidence, demanding to be told the birth-seconds of various individual rights as revealed by some juridical atomic clock because trees don’t fall if no one is around) and I’m feeling like I’m speeding along with youth’s airy illusion that this will never end, horizon unlimited, and that it all just means so, so much. I’m sixteen again and alone in the city again and staring again into that glowing jukebox that breathed with energy. The world and everything in it drips with consequence, and I’m there so naive and yet finally beginning to understand that no one else has a fucking clue either. The sudden freedom of the platform you’re standing on dropping from beneath your feet. Yes, you can grow up, but it’s a one way trigger. The freedom to live unbearably bright and yet shackled to the void from which we can’t entirely turn away, and so there we are, white-knuckled, smiling, tumbling. There are times though, like right now, filled with the pure joy that I’m an exploding thought of the universe itself. It breathes.