Heisenberg says everything is uncertain. Heisenberg, you make me want to cry.
Nothing in front of me feels like it should; like ink and paper. It’s just words staring back and blinking at me like stars. Can we forget the world and just have words and stars, blinking at each other instead of at us? I don’t think the stars like what they see. The words definitely don’t like what we have to say. We’re sandwiched between resentment and it trickles through us – guilt, that tickling drop running down our spines.That comes from the stars. We think we can get rid of it by writing, but the words throw it back at us till it’s tears. The best we can do is cry onto the page and smudge the ink.
The solidarity between us and the words – us and the stars – is that we want us gone too. The burden we are on ourselves is mirrored in potted ink and night skies. We’re poison to anyone who sees us. Our punishment is that we see ourselves too. And the death we bring is slow and self-inflicted.
Everything is uncertain except our future. That’s a prophecy. I can’t believe we go for that bullshit. I can’t believe we’re destroying ourselves the way we were expected to. There’s so much more we could be doing. We could get rid of the clocks and study science. We could learn about melanin, and culture. Appreciation and evolution. Meaninglessness and Schrodinger’s cat. We could learn about the stars that hate us. We could start writing our apology and hope the words don’t turn on us.