Everyone’s in their own bubble, their own world within the void. Each of us, in our own polished steel sphere, all float aimlessly about the cosmos, without steering, without gravity. Without control. The closest we truly get to one another is when we bump, just briefly, but always moving on our own path, sometimes parallel for a time, but not by design. By coincidence. All of us carry the force of our encounters with other bubbles and the impact they had and have upon ours, the straight line back to our origin long lost, contorted in coincidence after contact after collision. Connection. Our paths are irrevocably changed by every contact we make, some slight, some head on. Bubbles do not burst, they do not merge. Steel grinds against steel, resonating into the void in choirs of high frequency harmonics. This is the sound of our friendship, our loss. Our loneliness. Our love.
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The Boy Who Could But Didn't by Ben Leto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Based on a work at benleto.com.
Oh… exactly right. So lonely, and still, such a beautiful dance.
Blimey. This is the sort of stuff I like to write in my blog. What can we do about it, mate – all this isolation and whatnot? Frustratingly little, yes. But the recognition of the essential circumstance – well, it might be not so much the initial rung as the whole laddder, but it seems inherently good somehow.
From within my bubble I say you’ve expressed something fundamental, and you’ve expressed it very well.
Ok, that’s the extent of our collision right now. Back to my wine.
B – I’m saving the last one for you my dear, as long as it isn’t anything too slushy, simply because I can be terribly British you know. I’d rather breakdance than waltz.
d – Why thank you, that’s very kind. I hope we collide again some time, though it’s a grave sin in my idiom to ever leave wine unattended.