One's one once zero

“Against one perfect moment, the ages beat in vain.”  - Terry Pratchett

To truly feel as though your entirety is nowhere big enough to contain the conflagration reducing doors within you to cinders, as though every bit of life inside and around you cannot but fly off to different directions at the speed of light, traversing the cosmic spans within milliseconds, as though the labyrinth you so lovingly, so carefully cultivated inside you for years and years offered the resistance of a cobweb in the face of a supernova –

tears will never do that moment justice, and it will never come again. You put your fists up like wall to resist, to convince yourself of having a semblance of a self cohering together amidst the sublime chaos your heart the size of a goddamned planet suddenly found itself struggling to contain – to no avail, sweet alas, good grief, to no avail.

These will never be justice enough to the expanse you find inside your being, expanding to where sadness and ecstasy become one, like a supermassive black hole sucking your very name into its centre.  You will lose yourself in moments such as that, and never be truly the same person, ever, again.

That moment, my friend, is worth all your life and a thousand others like it put together.  Its magnitude will terribly frighten you out of yourself, and then you find your very atoms diffusing into the very air you occupy, horrified, sublimated, brave, beautifully indifferent.

The word love will never be equal to a feeling, a moment like that. And what is making love, in the face of a perfect moment already made?

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