Discovering the Universe
by MW Cook
I discovered the universe the other day. Ever been there?
Strange place, that. Full of tricks and lights. Flashing about with them teeth. With them claws.
“With them eyes?”
No, not with them eyes. I got the eyes. And the ears and the lips and the hands for touching and the tongue for tasting. That’s why I discovered the universe, not the other way around.
“What was it like?”
Son, it was like this.
I opened my eyes, and the universe fed me with photons. Some were salty. Some were sweet. Some were loud and shaking. Some were tiny and secretive.
I opened my ears, and the universe showed me her vibrations. Her churning and her pulsating. Her rhythmic, sexual dances that pulled and pushed on the drums within my head.
I opened my mouth and the universe cradled me like a child at the breast. The fruits of the earth, made from the same stuff as I. The fruits of the earth, slowly becoming I.
I opened my hands and caressed the universe, digging deep in the brown earth. Massaging the white clouds. Pushing at the crystal-clear waters.
I opened my nose and I drank the scents that flew off of the universe’s body. The harshness of fire smoke. The gentleness of lavender and sandal.
And then I opened my soul. And she spoke to me.
“What did she say to you?”
Are you awake?
“And what did you say back to her?”
I think I am.