Science points rather to an endless progress, through an endless space, of action involving the transformations of potential energy into palpable motion and hence into heat, than to a single finite mechanism, running fown like a clock, and stopping forever.
Once, we were contemplating the possibilities of reincarnation and I remember the vivid skepticism engraved into your expression, even as you listened to me. The plausability that the answer to the end of life was more life, the end of road being the mere starting line for another, seemed to be absolutely ludicrous and I only spectated on midly as you struggled to wrap your head around the concept.
At least, it’s not as banal as the predictable, adapated heaven and hell shit, I’d pointed out when you grumbled how it was all so very unnecessarily convulted. Think of it this way, I’d told you, nothing all at once. It’s all very falsifiable and you don’t have to see anything you don’t want to. Isn’t that the whole advantage of ambiguity anyways? You only get to experience things in the way you want them to be felt-static doesn’t have to be white noise if you want it to be blue.
And I suppose the exact same me down into the pillows to reclaim what I’d already given over to you long ago, to satite whatever carnal desire you have smouldering in your bloodstream.
Love has never been less than a kaleidoscopic pandemonium of screaming hues, but it’s only the colours we choose to paint our sceneries together in, the colours we choose to saturate our catalysed clamouring dawns, our inked-over surrepitious twilights, that matter at all.
