Infinite Infinitesimal Infinities
Everything is infinite; only we aren't. Our inconsequential lives don't allow us the time; we parcel it out individually, as we see fit. A slice to art, a slice to sex, a slice to words, a slice to thought, a slice to cycling trivialities. And no matter how many slices we serve ourselves, there is never enough and we never are full. So we hunger, but there is no mercy; we never starve.
Words are infinite. We, as humans, never tire in our experimentation, twisting and wringing out old verbs and adjectives for new meaning, and usually finding it, weaving tales of wonder for all to gawk at on our looms of dreamfulness. Those who do not dream, do not breathe.
Fish are infinite, and after all, we are just fish out of water, who forgot to grow gills and still drown in this depthlessness. We all like to sink into the deepest, most thought-provoking corner of ourselves, and we'd all like to think of ourselves as "layered", like onions or cake, but in the end we are all just infinite manifestations of the same dehumanized man, humbled god.
Sleep is infinite. There is no fathom unreachable in the impenetrable darkness only found behind closed eyes. Our minds are infinite paradoxes; the mind of Penrose. The thorns that catch, tear, blind. Sleep is how the mind repairs itself; I am an insomniac, and a damaged one at that.
Friends are infinite, but only for the time being. Sometimes you argue, and you're not sure what you're saying or why you're crying, you just know that you are, and that this friend must be a truly horrible person for making you do so.
I am infinite and I can't remember anything. Everything is moving too fast, and all the bad bits are in slow motion, and I am languid underwater, watching - hating everything and changing nothing - because I can't make myself get out of bed. I am a waste of a body; someone else could better use this body. I guess that's all we can hope to be; just used. A life and body without use is the same as wealth not invested, love unrequited, oxen with bad joints who cannot pull. We are oxen; we need to pull.
Our legacy is infinite and I could never leave you, because me minus you is only half of an infinity. Because, we both know, soulmates never die, but sometimes they leave, and sometimes they wither, and sometimes they're really just bandaged cadavers trying to pass off as lepers. And we mostly succeed, at most things, and - usually - we mostly love each other.
This hunger, for words and fish and sleep and friends, is infinite, and the world keeps popping laxatives into our mouths, like a doting mother who's smile conceals the splintered sins of the housewife. So we shit and we shit, and never feed anything but the shit-hungry mouth of this shitty world. And sometimes we vomit, and we think, "How nice it is, this change in scenery," all the while dangling upside-down from the precipice of our sanity, relinquishing our stomach linings to a universe so much like a broken elevator; you never know whether you're going up or down.
And all of it seems so...finite.