Have you felt it? The dark of night suddenly growing darker. Like somewhere somehow another light switch in your room you never knew about was flicked off. A fuze somewhere finally popping a bulb. The sound of silence going with it, to something beyond. A negative thing. The concept seems strange when applied to light and sound. Both things that require matter to produce. The light itself and the waves through medium. But think of temperature that’s easy. And really thats just energy exchange. Go touch a window on a cold day and the heat within you is literally pulled out. Same thing, on those nights. The shadow refridgerator perhaps. Entering your room like the hand print against the glass. Letting the light not reach a point of dark equilibrium, but actively being sucked out. Sound going to. Into that cold plate drum. Things are no longer being added or maintained, they are being drained. The walls close in. But it doesn’t feel that way does it? The walls are gone. The points between you and the nearest surface so empty and numerous that the likelihood of your contacting them plumments to an asymptote. Sure they’re still there, you know that. But the odds that you’d ever feel something again? Something other than your own heart beat and held breath and blood running in your ears? Zero. Less than zero. Fleeting. A dark cloud over your heart. You took it for granted didn’t you? The feeling of things. Solid things. Things you thought permanent never leaving. Things like time and place you assumed were constant. Its like you were a new spring bird. Born to flight. The air and wind your home, your body and modus built for it. So natural you might not even consider the ground as part of you. Then came your first summer rain. And you cower under the park bench like any other creature. Clutching the ground as your safe place and the sky your enemy. Will you ever fly so high again? Or will you need to keep the hard ground in the back of your mind always now. Just in case.

It astounds me what people take as truth or immutable. That rock you are standing on is only a relatively few degrees away from liquid. That heart in your chest only a few greasy meals away from seizing. That mind in your head only a few thoughts away from pyschosis. That person you knew only a few bad decisions away from drug addiction. Your father only a few angry steps away from the gun safe. A freind only a few mistakes away from being forgotten. The car only a few lanes away from a head on collision with you while you’re on your way home from work. The air you breath only an asthma attack away from suffocating you. This life is only a few years away from death.

The time before me in the scale of the universe is only 13.7 billion years old. Not counting whatever the hell was going on before that. And its only got 10.7×10^106 to go until the heat death. Assuming entropy if you’re into that. And so the fact that I am here and conscious of the 25-80ish years I can expect to live is either a miracle, or the math is wrong. Maybe this, this life, this existence is so incredibly significant that it inflates its own worth with respect to the infinite possible time. Or maybe this is it. Maybe its just you and then it turns off. Maybe the dark room gets darker. Maybe the moon turns off at night.

Is this an argument for God? No. It’s a plea of insanity.

Assuming hell and heaven are eternities, and everlasting in the after life. The fact I am not in one or the other already baffles me. How can I be experiencing these passing seconds in relation to infinite? How. How. How. How. How. How am I alive and not experiencing the death state already? This isn’t luck. This isn’t chance. I can atleast hope to win the lottery, I have heard of people that do win. The probilaty is low but no nothing. But life? The odds of life? No way. I could never hope for that. Not even idly, jokingly, imaginatively. It’s not possible. It doesn’t make sense. I am a bird in the rain. I am clutching to this life like I have a right to it, like it belongs to me, like its just a wink. I am a bird in the rain. This park bench my life I cling to. The sky then, must be whatever’s other than life. Does that mean I belong there?

Is this an argument for death? I don’t not. If anything its a proof that there is only ever life. Because if there was anything else, then that’s what I’d be.