By

George O. Obikoya

Ageless now, I was only thirty five. Away from prying eyes my days blend into nights seamlessly in an eternal kaleidoscope that is before me, which to long to share with family and friends ensures that the continuity intrinsic in the way things are sips through somehow to all even if their perspectives are innately unlike.

Something tells me though that nothing has meaning for whence we head, being itself even from my now rather unique angle simply the start of another cycle. So, my desire to be something lingers, as it is uncertain what to share from the viewpoint of nothingness. Frankly, there is no room for hedonism now, even as my terrestrial soul struggles to latch on to its familial roots.

For now it remains for me to revel in traversing millennia as the shortfall in even my celestial brain becomes evident of the pithy my erstwhile ilk endures amidst the void that envelopes them, the bane of existence a perpetual angst to which they cringe to escape the barrage of narratives that threaten the terseness they seek for life to be semblance of sane.     

The oddity for a professed raconteur ensconced in ethereal bliss of pervasive quiet yet scenic in somewhat peculiar trends the presentation of the familiar up to a point as inherent in the convergence of time is challenging in its subtlety, given the knowledge of permanence now revealed whose character is what it is, period.

It is perhaps even more perplexing that it is uncertain to my still querulous soul that my newness on the scene suffices to excuse my looming disillusion. Perhaps, it is my propensity for action, which even the vocal stillness around me does not preclude, that creates the need for me for even jive.    

To be sure, my sojourn is universal, and that my privilege to present even as nothing some would contend should soothe my restless soul is not questionable is even if some deem obsequious resolves little of my desire to be back as something. Now is when the significance of an information overload for an already weary soul becomes reality in a sense the soul must long to see.

The stomp over the relic of our extinct cousins on the Iberian Peninsula, the little girl in a cave painting some beast on a wall millions of years ago, the catastrophic asteroid impact that the dinosaurs must have wished never was, minds in formations in their time that changed how things worked, and even the funeral of a little boy who consoles his mother about which she is nonetheless oblivious. The list is endless, its time frozen.

It is an aphasic transition of cerebral renewal that would doubtless be counterintuitive in some planes where the reverse often translates to a handicap that underscores the personalization of awareness even understandable where its eternal continuity is not immediately universally evident. That does not mean that my restiveness is anywhere near abating though as the communion for me should be full.

That minds formulate teleportation in my direct past is however, reassuring, some would insist though, potentially scary. If only they knew the peace of the turmoil of transposons being knocked about in the overall picture being thus far inspiring those like me from different pasts would maybe contend were their pasts indeed gone, sucked into a hole of nothingness for reasons perhaps alien to them.

To have the chance to steer away from the hole sure must trump fear, as reasons not so cryptic stand in the way, the pleasure of the cacophony that informed the narratives of yore on which operational platforms that now seem to sway perilously on a common pivot due for the renaissance of a promise yet fulfilled, the sine qua non, for a universal communion crucial to not being holed, permanently.

Thus, it is the idea that will assuage the angst, not the face. This is why my trip to the gaol is now a fixture of my peregrine. For nothing to tell Joe what no one else seems to want to is or may be lack the information so to do, for me, a mission that ironically is, as things currently are, near impossible, which in itself is demoralizing.

It is the more so to watch being subjected to such agony for simply a jog in the park as consequent quite possibly upon the relentless power struggle at home that for a kid may not only slay sleep and sire depression, but may result in an internalization that shapes a life into a park prowler. Yet, that someday he will see me and hear me say those words of forgiveness is my hope that will never die.

My new state seems to confer what for long many crave, the control over their destinies to which they ascribe their elemental rights evolved from roots way beyond their grasp that even so is real in making their lives theirs. For those of us that live now in transcendence knowledge to start with it is fluid as my prior reality now essentially subsumed, merges with the current, more pervasive truth.    

With time, my consciousness of the insidious stillness past the speed of light reinforces the need for me to communicate with my past, in ways more than visual, but even if only so, for the urgency of the generation of ideas to steer clear of the hole to inspire in ways that may even enable in some fashion, other ways by which we could reunite in the vastness of time.      

So then, my expressions of contrition and forgiveness would hopefully ring true to all whose similar actions may be just the universal inspiration we need for the ideas that would enable the eternal transcendence that may steer us away from the hole, the requirement perhaps of the angst to resolve that makes so elusive what we so much pray to know, that we indeed cannot, and that we should simply celebrate the much we do.