Age Of Coming

You’re a baby. You’re hungry. Hungry for things that you don’t know about, things that may or may not exist.

We’ve all been there. We could grow old together, get big together, dominate this pile of mud together. Move to the edge of the city, make multi-dimensional work. Squint until we hallucinate, losing our minds one marble per minute.

A baby made of lasers once told me something along those lines.

He opened his mouth, spewing hues of crass, stone-age platitudes.

He was ravenous for the chewy, ineffable, never-ending grains of dust that make up our earthly cradle.

I gave him a book to learn from, but he ate it. I gave him a chair to sit on, but he consumed it. I gave him a gun to rule with, but he chewed it up. I gave him a blessed, sky-soaring aeroplane to play with, but he shoved it straight into his mouthy face-portal.

There are more colours that don’t exist than colours that do. There are more thoughts that don’t exist than thoughts that do. For a split second I thought I saw one. Never again.

The circle of life has been broken. An abandoned family tree, a brushstroke with no formal training... an ageless infant.

They cribbed him, swapped him with a changeling, a gooey copy of our long-lost loved one’s DNA. Lightning scented. Annoyingly invincible. A child’s drawing of a child.

So let’s start again, a new age of coming and going.

Born again - 1,440,000 times per second to be precise - a single line pretending to paint a whole picture.

You can’t hide from art and technology.

Closed eyes behind a veil of stained-glass sunglasses.

Irresistible toys designed to wind our clocks back to a simpler time.

A. G. Cook