Tag: ocean

you want to know my climate. i have none. you demand insight to my core temperature and my core temper. they have no average. “where,” you slam your fist down, “are the records of your tides, who keeps the collection of your common sediments, which museum holds the species of your soul?”
and i say: nowhere, nobody, none.
because i am weather above the ocean and my storms cannot be predicted. you will find me in the lightless depths of waters that gave life millions of years ago, where rules are crushed under tons of air and salt. my tracks lead into the atmosphere where climate is an unknown name and clouds sing another hymn every day.
i won’t be measured in your steady units. my body may be rain-smoothed stone, but you cannot guess the earthquakes of my actions with your questions.
i have and always will be made of seasons and water, of air and soil and if i still – if i rest – it’s only to because my summer has ended to invoke autumn in me.

The universe couldn’t have expanded into a more brilliant world of simple complexity than the one we have, and it’s incredible to just think about it.

Everything we have is so wide that our minds can’t comprehend it. 

An ocean is deeper than we can fathom by multiplying our own body length, how many of us to stack until we touch the dark bottom, how many to span endless water from land to land, we can’t imagine. A brain has more connections than we can take breaths, more impulses than notes we sing or words we could ever speak in three lifetimes. And even a murmuration of starlings encompasses the entire sky over our head, horizon to horizon across the field we stand on to let the rustle of millions of feathers drown out our own blood.

All of it is big and seems different, and then we learn it’s not.

We learn that the shift of water molecules is the electric jolt between neurons is the wing beat of a starling, that all roll like a wave of atoms that make us and the universe, that everything is infinitely complex and so simple.

Our world isn’t complex because its parts are. The single molecule of water, the small neuron, the lone starling – they’re simple.

It’s the chaos and the entropy of the tiniest elements, the infinite possibilities of their touches, that turn order into life and brilliance.