Kinetic Rebirth

What is it? I honestly, and deeply, in Marianas Trench depths of longing, wish I could understand. I wish I could see, but the reality’s reflection seems as blurred as a river in a Monet painting, and my eyes are as damaged as astigmatism could corrupt them. I wish I could know what it is, almost as I wish I could know me. What am I. And why that thing that I don’t know what it is impacted me so acutely - and with such a precise aim, perfectly embedding the core of my heart, summoning an echo of Dahmer’s old habits (and I bet the rational hyenas are craving the satisfaction of their hunger with my heart), as if it thrived in the Slayer’s repentless philosophy.

That must have something to do with me, right? It has to. If it breaks me, even just a little, even if it is only a nano fragment of mine - of my body, of my soul, of my own aura - that is demoralized, it must be because something, in me, in my kinda way; in my own essence of existence; in my own anatomical proportions’ organization; in the way that my own blood travels inside me; in the way my own heart pumps both willing to start moving and inertia; in the way my own tear ducts rain me salt, and in the way my own dust of stars is organized in and through me, in order for it to be me, collapses with. It must be that. It has to be that - or else, what would it be in order to exist fractures?

That is the only explanation that sustains my ache - celestial collisions; multilateral collisions, from every possible angle and of every kind of nature, impregnated in any possible cogitated sense - atoms, blood, metal, screams, euphony, symphony, tears, and light, all intrinsically, transcendentally, combined and collided, dancing altogether, in a so smooth harmony, personifying the own concept of coalescence. They look almost indistinguishable. And as they keep on increasing their speed; their transitions; their tension; their coordination; their complexion; their complexity, and as they stretch their Shakespearean act, almost until there is nothing more to stretch; almost reaching Icarus desired destiny, they just can’t take it anymore. They reach their own limit - and explode.

And I guess that, even if there is any other possible explanation for my feelings, I don’t want to accept another. I don’t even want to acknowledge the possibility for there to be any other key for my transcendental puzzle. Because I do want to believe in collisions. I want to believe that, as stars and gas in a galaxy move, and sometimes collapse, blowing up, and then create a whole new universe, I myself sometimes let my emotions and thoughts indulge in an energetic overflow, to the point that they rip apart, in order to new emotions, or new interpretations of those emotions be born. If we are made of atoms, why couldn’t this explanation be considered sufficient? Nothing is lost, everything is transformed, that’s what I’ve used to hear. I will believe in it; I want to believe in it. I want to believe that each collision is beautiful and it has its own magical dust; its own mesmerizing light; and its own secret of motion, all embedded in their own well constructed maze of extra mundane nature. I want to believe that each collision was meant to be, in order for me to become a new better me.