His whole energy lent to it, that tetrapod to whom all our insecurities and petty quarrels can be traced. Not to their foundation, but a crucial – to us, though in the grander scheme possibly quite insignificant – point of reference. Nothing so simple as a fish-lizard, a hero and our doom. If life is comedic, or tragic, respectively. I’m still not sure, but I’ve at least narrowed it down that far. Modern life microcosmically, and grander life in all it’s scope as well. Life itself possibly a mere peculiarity or detour in the great unending motion that all forces serve, all things submit to.
Through him fate made itself felt. Always moving, no one can say where except maybe the initiator, a pinball game of a complexity unimaginable to any creation of itself yet made manifest. One day maybe our goal in turn, like Tiktaalik’s before us, will be recognised as to bring that forth. Or at least, to drag the line along a little. Only unknowing agents of the all unifying principle, the reliably unreliable Logos.
He did it because he was born to do it, because every event he met upon his way there pushed him further to it. His body was built for it, the product of the very same process which he was an avatar of. As am I, as are you. What specific series of events led him to the beach now long lost, where he slipped free of the primordial deeps and into the loving embrace of the sun, we will likely never know. Not to worry, to what end would you seek such knowledge anyway? Trivia. The gravitas of the day the deed was done is what should hold your attention. That brief spike of sudden momentousness, dead aeons on either side.
We’re in the desert, and then the world changes. The product entirely of undetectable ripples, that make themselves known only when they meet to turn the tide once more. Perfectly predictable, the only thing you truly can be sure of, yet every time unanticipated. For of course every time the twist twists, it takes on a totally distinct character. Probably unrecognised completely in it’s own time, if anything with such power is present, the weight of the turning is felt truest in the next. Proof of itself, and the guiding principle, long after it is of use.
The potential for prediction doesn’t need justification by the thing itself, innumerable elements – every thing that was and is – combine in the weave of fate, the arrogance to assume that have not implies could not is unwise. One day further on along this strand of the greater stretching line of All, prediction may occur. Mayhaps even the or an conclusion, if ever there will be, to totality will be something within itself achieving such realisation. Enlightenment from within rather than beyond, replication/ birth of divinity anew and an end to what can only be called a kind of feeding process.
This mighty minion of the Moirae, he did his duty. “Do what you would do” was all instruction given. Indirectly, from an indescribable number of sources. None of the neurosis that inspires man’s pathological illusion of choice – a quirk I struggle to understand the purpose of, yet owe everything to – existed to give him pause as it appears to do us, though of course such stumbling is just as much a part of the performance in truth. No, he had none of the unease you or I are at all times aware of. He only did exactly what he only ever would do, and thus was content. We should be so lucky.
Ramblings of a neurotic mess 