Vining

I like to imagine myself a young melon vine. I know, perhaps, in some radicle wisdom, about the sun, stringing me up from roots, stretching me out by leaves. I perceive, in my sense, the soil, and its deliciousness, its coziness.

But most of all, I discern the gravid nothing, the total nothing of three total infinities of nothing. A profound, primitive nothing—more lightless than black, for I know no color, more lonely than alone, for I know no companionship.

The universe is me.

Into the timelessness, the spacelessness, the colorlessness I am compelled to flail. I cannot question the carnal draw, but I know nothing of it either. What being toys with my tendrils? What entity draws me?

I flail and flail.

Of course, all this flailing is futile. I am the universe. I stretch, but not into. I reach, but not out. I yearn, but not for.

Until, in mid flail, I brush something. Something out, something for, something into. Spacefulness collapses onto me, and with all I am, I grasp it.