Lately I find myself pondering eternity.
For me eternity is neither nothingness or void. Nor do I find myself abjectly contemplating a Nietzschean eternal recurrence of this life by daily sublimation and surrender to the possibility of endless reincarnation.
With the Kantian destruction of ontological arguments for the proof of a god whose existence relies on being posited by human contemplation and acceptance in faith, I find myself looking for clues to an eternity that is instead limitless, and only constrained by the will to liberate an eternal imagination without beginning or end.
I find myself wondering the colour of eternity? Is it orange as my friend responds because he has been bad, dislikes this hue, and it will subsequently torment him till after the end of time, or because for me it is simply the colour of dawn. The sun rises every day, and its recurrence over eons suggests a time eternal.
Imagine for a moment that eternity can be filled with light and colour, rather than just angst. If we daydream, does eternity fold in upon itself and disappear because our sense of time is lost? If I lose track of time, I lose my sense of eternity, or perhaps travel deep into it. Over time memories fade, and soon enough I will disappear into eternity as if I had been a daydream on the mind’s horizon.
At the horizon of my eternity, will a lone currawong welcome the twilight before dawn with its call, or will its cousins, a murder of crows greet their suspicion of eternity and imminent death with cacophonous voices? Birds, especially the crow family are highly intelligent, observed to fear death, and raise a multitude of calls to each other in warning. I notice on a walk at work before midday that the bush is full of birds anticipating on their voices the possibility of storm, or perhaps it is eternity.
I contemplate rather that eternity will be filled by both laughter and tears, remembered in pavement graffiti, and the momentary pleasure of beings sharing their discrete world.
On Saturday I undertook a solitary bush walk climbing to the Drawing Room Rocks. The first part of the walk is steep, through dense rainforest, before the escarpment and its wildflowers are reached. I stopped to catch my breath adjacent to the last blossoms of the fuchsia heath with its hanging bells of red and white.
An Eastern Spinebill making its rounds, stopped to float beneath each of the fuchsia bells, supping their nectar beside my shoulder before passing further into its territory. In my reverie, our worlds crossed paths.
The forest was still, and eternities voices remained silent as noon approached once more, for both the honeyeater and I.
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