I never asked for any light to raindown on me, not even like as fireworks or those now-ubiquitous icicleChristmas lights.
It was more like actual rain: a spray or mist of discretelight pockets dropping all over me leaving no wet or remnantof any kind just ever-fleeting memories of moments of clarity illuminated by the temporarytruth of insight light parceled out in small bits as if to ration certainty.
I’ll never believe there’s some charlatanwizard behind a curtain pulling levers to spray thelight to those lucky enough to be standing in the lightplace at the light time.
I so resist the impulse to seek thelight’s source, actually.
I prefer to revel in the illogicof short wave light in a universewhere light yearns to be continuous to match infinitelyrepeating equations that posit infinity…atleast in theoretical physics.
But ultimately, they say, a littleknowledge is a dangerous thing.
And I’m just enough aware of a smallsample of key quantum theories thatlet me sleep tonight believing that tomorrow willnot disappoint, and simply continue to provide a light rain.
Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley 10.23.02, 1135-1145pm
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