What are the limits to your imagination?
Think of the most dazzling sunsets,
Glimmering in the back of your mind, and trust me you'll find a place
You don't remember.
A beautiful autumnal scene, an equinox,
a serene dance between wild, clean, and comforting.
It comforts you because it's real,
tangible, rational, corporeal,
ensuring that the world around you exists.
Now.
Let that scene blink out.
In your mind's eye you can see darkness, a blackness so consuming it looks like someone might have photoshopped it out.
However...
Isn't that darkness still something?
The blackness you see when you close your eyes is no less there, no less touchable, livable,
no less an experience than beauty.
The nature of existence doesn't determine its presence, just its shape
its form
its impact
On Life.
Consciousness.
Your ability to override that primal, animal instinct that says
"I am eternal"
And to see what is true.
Your death is an inevitable occurrence always in concurrence with the gift of life revoking the privilege of your mind's eye, the eye that tells you with certainty that life is real, and everything from a sunset to a dream is happening.
It ensures your sanity and is a rest from the eerie ever-present terror that is the unimaginable void, the final barrier to everything that is nothing.
When I was a child and boasted "I'm afraid of nothing", who knew how true that would hold. Yes, I'm afraid of nothing, it terrifies me, it chills me to the bone, bones that will one day rot in my grave, a shell of the mind that once comprehended itself, you can't call it a husk or a shade if there isn't a trace of what used to exist, because now there's nothing but nothing; I am afflicted by the mortal fear of mortality, sucking up my sanity for my millions of moments before the end strikes!
But I digress.
Inevitability decreases the rationality of a fear to zero.
What will one day come to be true, is the one thing we as humans can never comprehend, the revocation of existence, and it horrifies us,
because out of all our remarkable traits, the bliss of ignorance is not one of them.
And so, we as a species must adapt to reality, as we do so well,
and accept the inevitable,
eventual
death.
A/N: Spoken word is really weird to put on paper, so the proper deliverance of the poem may not happen. There are certain points in the poem where intensity of the verses must be lowered or heightened respectively, and there's no easy way to do that with a word document. There are also points where you may notice grammatical errors. These are completely intentional. Spoken word, (as the name suggests) is meant almost entirely for performance and memorization. While most of the time the grammar will fall into place with traditional English sentence structure, it occasionally won't, as in these cases, the speaker is meant to perform the irregularities in an artistic way, with the author's intention in mind.
