His birth was not a conventional birth. He knew that. They knew that. They wanted to create something magnificent. Not your ordinary piece of shit of a human package. A real human. A different human. A human to be proud of making. All this flesh and bone manufacturing gone to waste over the years. They didn’t want that, they were fed up with that. They wanted Anew.

A new human.

They made a new human. And it took hours of planning, more hours of articulating and many more hours of executing. But it was worth it. They made him and that was enough. When he came out it was tremendous. The moment was like no other. They knew that as the moment set upon them and they knew that years later when that moment was a memory and that memory grew more distant.

He knew how special his arrival was too. He hadn’t witnessed other human arrivals but he knew. From the way they looked at him, from the energy they voiced. From all the empty air around him. Waiting for the first contamination. It was sparky. It was emboldening. And it was his. His conscious start to whatever he fucking wanted.

He is majestic. But his becoming is achieved through flashing waves of resonance, constant oscillating orbits of linear temporality, swinging pendulums of diverse emotional spectrum and continuous bifocal catapults of positive and negative polarities.

First loud. And demanding of attention – life was. The very essence of life, new and monumental demanded his full attention. And he had no options but to give it. Options, he will learn later on dilapidated a human’s soul. So he had no options but to focus on making Life work. Making sure the waves, the orbits, the pendulums and the catapults functioned correctly, or he would lose Life. Criticality is a haven, a safe refuge. And in that he had unknowingly basked in the first few waves of his Life.

They made him majestic. They worked hard on this one. Gave him the tools to be. Majestic. And that he was. He managed his waves, orbits, pendulums, and catapults like clockwork. He was big on Life. He managed it so well that it became second nature. And it was at this point, at second nature point that he began to have space. And space brought options. And options brought the buzz. The distant buzz that grows ever so seamlessly that the human barely notices its blend into the existing background fabric of the waves, orbits, pendulums and catapults. The buzz that grows out of nothingness, becomes a dominant area of Life, a new one, worth of attention. And attention he gratefully gives.

The buzz creates such bombardment and such major force that he is completely consumed. He was made magnificent but he was stuck in time and context. He became obsessed with the imposed linearity of the first and suppressed by the voluntary human limitedness of the second. As the constant elements of temporality resumed their intangible incessant course, the buzz continued to push and pull him seemingly towards something but in actuality towards nothing at all. This antagonized his equilibrium. The perfect equilibrium he was born with.

He was promised direction at his birth. He was promised direction would make the unceasing waves, orbits, pendulums and catapults worth it but direction had failed to become. Instead of the promised, he was given pitifully shortened various directions, small arrows pointing to haphazard unattainable endpoints, amounting to no direction at all. That was the effect of the space that brought the buzz. His antagonized equilibrium had lost its perfection. Equilibrium, the balance of opposite duality that he was working so hard, so long to maintain, was threatened. He had to neutralize. He had to save his equilibrium for a reason unbeknownst to him. Embedded deep in his nature was his pursuit of mediating the abundance of dualities his life was made of that he did not even have reason to search for reason. But the buzz was loud and the shadows were grey and equilibrium was to be saved. So the buzz gained a pattern. And he was majestic no more.

Masked beauty. The darkness. The light. The light between the clouds. The lightness. Surprising lightness after heavy eternity. The washing over of memories and the beauty of all that they hold, good and bad, happy and sad. The profound knowledge that there is no good and bad. The preciousness of such knowledge with all the years it took to build it. Its sacredness and the inert awareness that it ought not to be shared, belonging only in the hearts of the old and wise. And the silent wisdom in keeping it so.

The silence, and what it means to a human at old age. The silence inside him, and how it welled up into every corner of his being and filled him up with a lot more than he was ever filled in speech. The accent of the sun, and how it breaks at the edge of a glass pane millions of space measures after it has traveled into the vast universe. Vastness and how he learned that it is as much applicable inside him as it is outside. Boundaries and how they disappear the instant he changes the factor on which he had set them on.

Miracle. And how it’s just a fancy word for everyday life. Life and how it vanishes ever so quickly. Ever so quietly. Ever so profoundly but ever so simply too. Ever so significantly but ever so indistinctly, unnoticeably as well. Magnificence and how perishable it is. How vague, how misleading and how lonely it is. The strife for the self and how little place there is for it. Littleness, and how little a hummingbird is. Hummingbirds and how their little hearts beat about one thousand two hundred and sixty times per minute. Minutes, and how most hummingbirds only get about a year’s worth of them. Finiteness, and how it scares him to death. Death, and how it offers a beginning.