Infants In The Night | 4.13.21

Strange how little we know of this universe, of this strange blur surrounded thing we call life. We are so very small in the face of all the rest, pinpricks of light, of dust, floating around a vast sea of everythingness. We are children of children, and they are children too. We are infants in an enduring night, clinging to one another around little bits of warm glow. We tell stories of the stars to make sense of all we cannot name, we invent myths to push ourselves to be bigger than we are. We shake in the face of death, the lot of us, too often greet her timid and afraid, when she is an old friend that knows our kind well. Here, a fire in the darkness, here, the sparks that hold off the monsters we trace the shapes of in our imaginations. Here, a hand to hold to make you feel, if for a moment, a little less alone. We are children’s children on the timeline of all things, sending out our tiny cries, hoping someone will hear.

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