Death as solely a concept is not a luxury that humans can afford.
If life is a simple trick of biology, a specific sequence of atoms and molecules, does that mean that life has no meaning? That we, in fact, have physical restraints, and are forced to come to terms with the certainty that we are not bigger than ourselves; do not have much time in the world; are an infinitesimally small speck in the grandest timeline of existence?
Or, does it mean that the living body—despite all barriers and boundaries—prevailed against the universe to give itself meaning?
I postulate this: there is not a single life without meaning; and conversely, there is no meaning without the essence of being. But be-ing is not merely the biological definition of a working mind.
There are black holes that dance around each other for eons, finally collapse into each other’s arms. They create waves in the space-time continuum, washing lengths of pure energy over the universe. Hauntingly beautiful, and yes, woefully abstruse. There is beauty still—in the absence of life anywhere in the cosmos, in the organizations of electrons and quarks.
Persistence is written into the very fabric of the universe. The meaning of life resides in these nooks and crannies, in the evening thoughts of the poet, the messy proofs of the mathematician, the chlorophyll creating the colour of grass, the stars blazing in the sky. What I mean to say is: persistence is being. Persistence is meaningful. Persistence is beautiful.
I ran across the field of stars Over my sun and ten thousand leagues far Meteors rained down upon me as a storm brewed But a wave washed me away to the frozen valley of forgotten moons
The sea of stars twists around me sparkling and fading into distant galaxies The colour of a universe is not one that all can see easily Mine is a brilliant light unknown to man
Whales float across the sky Birds by the millions ready their wings to fly Goliath dragons roam the void for a place to call home Among the creatures of the night I no longer felt alone
I traveled through eons of time just to realize a lie Thought the noise of my tears were my battle cry I walk across the clouds and among the beasts, But then I fall back down to the sea
My mind twists dreams into a reality Ever-present Celestials visit a place shrouded in mystery The sun and moon are both high in the heavens Creating for me a new haven of shadowed light.
Silent supernovae share a pulsing light and rupture colliding planets Beautiful catastrophes wreak havoc Battles continue through dawn and dusk, surrounding the cosmic shrine Still, through it all, the universe inside me shines
(Please do not repost or use my works without my permission.)
Since these are epic poem fragments, they are organized into books, and then further divided into parts. If you have read my last fragment, you may realize that I am posting them in order. This is because my mini-project was to try and write different parts of a story. Finally, the interpretation of the poem is up to you readers!
Important Words:
Apotelesma — the influence that stars have over human destiny (Latin) Noctifer — the evening star Carina — dear, beloved (Italian) Polaris — the north star Sidereus — relating to or of the stars (Latin) Antares — a star Rigel — another star
Book II, Part VII: Sidereus — Truly, She Is of the Stars
As the sun set on the thousandth of the blessed days, The universe itself knew that Carina and the angels were impossible to faze. Those days were known as the ephemeral ones Lasting for beautiful fleeting moments just measured by the sun.
The muses hast shown they travelled the lands, seas, and never ending skies, Helping all those in need that they would come by. Battles were won and demons were slain, But deities, pray tell, why the eight starry-eyed angels were somewhat unsettled all through the way.
For Carina was yet to conquer her own fears, dark and impure, And was still haunted by the ghosts of the battles she had to endure. More than the memories, she was still plagued by visions of darkness, As Noctifer had not yet left her mind in silence.
One day as dusk drew near, The winged stars came to a consensus to speak their fears. The celestials looked on as they spoke the truth, That rung through the ears of the troubled youth:
“Art thou not a hero now? A face that many have seen and to whom blessings upon the hundreds are endowed? So why do you disregard your ultimate vow To win over your demons and make us proud?”
To this, Carina did reply in shame: “O beloved companions, I am grateful for your compassion and role in what I became, But, in battling and winning over my nightmares, what if I change? And even so, I do not have means to achieve my aim.
The evening star is so great, so strong, That even if Polaris, the guiding star, were to aid me through the throng, I would surely fail and lose my identity all while being wronged. That, my friends, has been my fear all along.”
To this, the angels smiled, As they looked upon this tender hearted child: “Words cannot express our boundless love for you, In this life or any other, we will always be with you.
And do not fear, for you have the strength of a thousand stars, Because you will find the courage within to weather these scars. We shall be right beside you in your battle; if need be, we shall be your lodestar. You are not alone. We believe in all that you are.”
Carina took a moment to reply, As she again silently thanked the sky for her friends who had just promised to never say goodbye, But finally she answered, her eyes brimming with liquid hope: “You have set me straight, and I shall depart to face my foe.”
Notes: This is the start of a series of my ‘epic poem’ fragments (epic poems tell grand stories.) Famous epic poems include the Iliad and the Mahabharata.
Definitions: Apotelesma — the influence that stars have over human destiny (Latin) Noctifer — the evening star Carina — dear, beloved (Italian) Polaris — the north star Sidereus — relating to or of the stars (Latin) Antares — a star Rigel — another star
Book I, Part I; Apotelesma — The Calling of the Muse
Sing through me, muses, my heart’s true desire, The willingness to tell the events that transpired. A wretch’d, insipid maiden whose sense was all twisted shadows, As if Noctifer ‘imself had brought the night upon her. The girl could not escape the dismal mind she called her own, And adored the stars so much that in lieu decided to call them home. But still, as the Night Bringer pushed Carina of the spent soul to her undeserving fate, The absence of all love felled her, and in flooded a bottomless hate. And once the child could take no more, From a ledge like a spear in the sky, so high that not even winged creatures could reach it, She let herself fall down, down on to the forest floor. The stars that the girl loved so much came down and let the sky dark’n, Drew nigh to save who they could not bear to lose. Apotelesma, the influence that stars have over human destiny; The girl found angels on Earth through some otherworldly silent plea, As if the stars themselves had sent them down from the vast universe, To make her life as blessed as a living heaven. Still, the evening star was at large, And the ineffable angels were compelled to teach courage and strength to their new beloved charge. So, deities of the sky, sing through me the events that transpired As the girl achieved all that she ‘ad hoped to aspire.
It’s been a while. You’re probably having fun, wherever you are, but I’m stuck here in this crusty-aged apartment (See? See? I’m not swearing). And your cat can die. I don’t even pretend to understand why you would leave him with me — every time I try to feed him, he tries to scratch me. He hates me with every fiber of his fur.
All jokes aside though, I’ve missed you.
And you’ve missed too much.
Nayan graduated a few weeks ago with his science degree, but all he could do was cry. I’ve tried to hold him together — it was hard at first. His grades went from the top of the class to dead bottom, and up again all in the span of a few weeks. I wouldn’t let him go anywhere without me because otherwise, he would do something stupid.
Sometimes I think I’m a terrible younger brother. He started smoking again, maybe a week after you were gone. He thinks I don’t know. But I see the cigarette butts in the trash, and I smell the sharp tang of smoke when I walk onto the balcony. I know how bad it is for him, but I’m too scared to do anything. If this is his coping method, what happens if I make him stop?
We broke when you left, and it took a while to put the pieces back together — but no matter how hard we try, the cracks remain. So does the pain. Now there’s nobody that smiles at us after a long day of work, nobody to come pick us up from the university. Nobody to manage Nayan when he’s overworking. Nobody to listen to me and ruffle my hair when I’m talking about my favorite shows.
The doctor told me that writing letters usually helps. But I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe if I write enough, you’ll respond. Maybe it’s like the story of the thousand paper cranes; maybe if I make enough, I’ll get a wish.
And the only thing that I would wish for is for you to be back.
I remember the first time Nayan and I met you, you were beautiful. That’s the only way I can describe it. People always talk about perfect angels coming to save them, but you weren’t that. You weren’t perfect, and that’s what made you special. There wasn’t always a smile on your face, and you got frustrated at the littlest things your brother would do. Overworking yourself for assignments became a habit. You were perfectly imperfect, and you were real. And that’s why you taught us the greatest lesson of all — you don’t have to be perfect to be loved. Because you were somebody just like us, you could inspire us to be better.
I don’t know how we became friends, and I don’t know why. We were so dull, yet you came and lit us up, all those years ago. Maybe you needed somebody too.
But honestly speaking: isn’t it ironic how a doctor-in-training can die from a disease? (Like come on man, that has got to be the darkest joke life has pulled on me yet.)
Okay, you must be having a lot of fun, eating grapes among the angels up there, so I’ll keep it short.
So back when I was an angsty teenager (No, don’t laugh. Yes, I’m accepting it.) I used to read poetry. A lot of it actually. (But you already know that.) I came across the word ephemeral. I thought it was the most beautiful word I had ever seen. But when I searched it up, you know what the meaning was? “Lasting for a very short time”. Still, I wanted to say it means more than that: “Beautiful, and lasting for a very short time”.
And that’s what you are. Too beautiful for this world, and too fleeting. Ephemeral.
Goodbye, Jini. I promise we’ll get better — don’t worry about us.
If there ever comes a day where we can't be together, keep me in your heart, I'll stay there forever.
- Winnie the Pooh
Oliver had believed that Quentin would always be there for him. And he always had been, ever since the start of kindergarten all those decades ago. Just as the Earth orbits the sun, and just as the seasons would pass, decade by decade, Quentin would remain forever. The two had done everything together – so when the time finally came, it was no surprise that they would retire in the same year as well.
Oliver had been set to retire from his job as an elementary school art teacher in early January, and when Quentin found out that he would close up his office at the bank for good by February, they were ecstatic. There was talk of a huge trip afterwards – from the Rockies of Canada to the Taj Mahal of India, they would see it all.
Unknown to Quentin, Oliver had started to create a painting to give to his old friend on his retirement day. After all, it was Quentin that had encouraged him to pursue his love of art. Against a sea of people, it was Quentin who had told him to get an art degree. Oliver was thankful to his friend – without him, he may have never found his true passion, and he may never have become an art teacher.
The idea for the painting had come quickly and easily. When they were both children, there was a day that their mothers had taken them out to play by the lake. Oliver and Quentin had been running around with the latter’s new puppy on that warm spring day – a purebred Golden Retriever. Oliver thought that it was just the perfect thing to remind Quentin how much he meant to him.
Oliver had just busied himself with his paints when the travel agent had called – they would be going on their trip in March! Oliver had felt like the luckiest and happiest man in the whole entire world.
It was all so perfect. So, so perfect. Oliver was tingling with joy as he dialed up Quentin on the phone. He was sure Quentin would be elated as well.
When Quentin picked up the phone, Oliver started to babble on about the trip as he tried to contain his own excitement. But when he heard no positive response, he slowly came to a stop. A quiet sobbing sounded from the other end.
And after a few short sentences, Oliver was in tears as well.
Everything else faded away. All he could hear was static.
The doctors had used fancy words to describe the tragedy – they hadn’t used brain cancer until much later. Still, no matter what was used, they all meant the same tragic truth – Quentin was probably going to die, and there was nothing, not one thing that anybody could do.
~~~
“Honey, would you like me to go with you?” His wife’s voice was soft, as if trying to encase her husband’s fragile state of mind. “You know you don’t have to go there, you really mustn’t-”
“No. I…Quentin… he would have wanted me to go.” Oliver knew she only meant the best, but there was something that he had to do. “Would you mind getting me the painting?”
“Of course, honey. Of course.”
There wasn’t much reason for talk after that.
It hadn’t ended in a grand exit. It had been more of a soft whisper, a last valiant flutter of the heart. There were no final words – Quentin hadn’t spoken that day at all. Every last had been counted in actions; one last smile, two tears down his pale cheek, and one, two, three, last heaves of his chest. Truly, death had placed a hand on Quentin many weeks ago – now all he did was guide him away.
The word ‘go’ was suddenly too cruel to fathom.
Oliver knew that it would happen one day – but it wasn’t enough to stop the grief that overcame him. He grieved the loss of his friend, but moreover, he grieved the departure of a tremendous person on this planet. Quentin was always the kinder of the two – as he became older, wrinkles from years of smiling became a permanent feature of his face. He was a friendly being to everybody he met – he was the very embodiment of the words kindness is contagious. Everywhere Quentin went, a laugh and a smile were sure to follow.
Oliver looked down at the painting in his hand as he walked into the funeral home. It was a tribute to his friend, a last goodbye. The news had come too suddenly, the passing too quickly, for Oliver to present it to his friend. The timing just hadn’t worked out. The painting was meant to be a retirement gift… but in just no time at all, Quentin had retired from his life itself.
Oliver looked up to the heavens, and he prayed with all his heart. “I have your gift now, Quentin,” he mused. His eyes began to tear up. “Do you see it now, my friend? Are you at peace?”
A soft breeze blew by outside, and a leaf flew in the open door of the building. It brushed the painting as it came to rest upon Quentin’s coffin. Oliver’s lips tightened as a tear fell down his face.
Oliver had never been one for ghosts, but now he imagined the loud booming laughter of his friend. He hoped – no, he knew – that at least in spirit, Quentin was someplace above, watching over all the ones that he held dear.
Oliver came to a stop in front of the coffin and set the painting down. Oliver had decided to come after the big reception, so the flowers were long gone, as were the candles. But the name inscribed in the plaque was the same one that would forever be etched into his heart.
Quentin Theodorus Davies: A proud father, husband, and friend to all. May he rest in peace.
As the old man stood before the grave, countless invaluable memories washed over him one by one. They were all dulled now – it was if a cloak had been cast upon them after the terrible news. But the thoughts were tiny treasures in Oliver’s mind – they were reminders of the man that he was proud to call his friend.
~~~
Later that day, when Oliver drove home, he sat down in front of the fireplace in his favourite armchair, with a book in his hand and a mug of coffee in another. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Anything to get his mind off of his friend.
He probably drifted off at one point or another, because the next time he opened his eyes, he felt the warmth of the sunset on his face – and a fresh track of tears down his cheeks.
Oliver heaved a sigh again, and walked outside to get a few whiffs of fresh air. He looked out to the park that sat in front of his house – the last traces of snow glittered in the sunset, and the buds on the trees were just starting to push forward.
And just as he looked a little farther, he could view a familiar scene playing out in front of him.
Two small children, both with sandy blond hair. Both with a wide smile stretched across their faces. Both sitting under a tree with a small Golden Retriever resting on their laps.
A sense of nostalgia overcame Oliver as he was reminded of the bittersweet memory in the painting. Oliver smiled, for the first time in what felt like centuries.
Once upon a time, Oliver had thought that he would have a forever with Quentin. And he did. Now their forever… it belonged to somebody else.
Momo's Musings 