Of Stars and Turtles

It starts with the sea turtles. Born into a swirling ever demanding unfair chaos that overtakes them from the beginning of their existence. Born to die. That is the head of the writer. Thousands of ideas, tens of thousands perhaps, crawling through the gritty dooming existence of birth (hatching), with only one – ten if you are lucky – find their way to be something else, something greater. All the turtles only trying to make sense of their world before being swooped up by a gull or crushed by a stray dog. Of course it is all gibberish. Complete nonsense to anyone but the author who is trying to find their own path to water. Their own path to sanity or rational thought. Perhaps it is only an attempt to clear the mind from those ten thousand stories cracking themselves out of their hard shell only to find they were buried in the sand. Predator swamping. That is what it is called. The biological phenomenon where if thousands of prey swarm the scene, the comparing few predators cannot hope to eliminate them all. It should be called prey swamping. All in all, it sounds pretty terrible for the turtles. Great day for the gulls. No wonder Hemingway was an alcoholic suicidal. Does this make sense? Millions of words that never reach the paper flooding the mind, twisting and turning, a bowl of egg yellows and whites beaten and whipped until frothy yet never reaching the pan. The quill may touch the ink – does it not always? It rests there most of the time moving only with a breeze or draft. Rarely the touch of a hand compels it to move, much less the mind. And so the turtles crawl on. One painstaking grain of sand at a time toward a goal that beats them back, that at first refuses to take them. For the reader is quick to judge and even faster to hate. This is good – apologies – this is well.

It is interrupted with a galaxy – nay a universe of thoughts and emotions flashing in brilliant colors too far away to be seen with the naked eye let alone grasped with the bare hand. The same are of the stars as of the turtles, born only to die. The unseen stars are the truly beautiful ones, the gas giants blooming into a black hole of non existence. Does this make sense? Existing for nothing else but their own glory, or perhaps the glory of an invisible Creator, but existing unseen and existing joyfully nonetheless. That is the true acceptance the writer must understand for themselves. Grasp. Hold onto so dearly that gravity is not even allowed a say. Those thousand stars (turtles) finding their way unseen in the darkness. Only one star in a billion reaching the face of an admirer. Exploding their way into existence only to find they are buried in the dark. Prey swamping. Pretty good day to be a black hole. Seen or unseen the star knows not. It is easy to think that all stars believe they are seen, why else shine out of existence? For the reader is quick to judge and even faster to hate. This is well.

It ends with understanding. An understanding that greatness is only a matter of perspective. Beauty belongs to the eye of the beholder. Yet is who? For some it is the apparition of gods watching from the horizon as it scuttles its way towards life (death), for others it is the One – the real God – who plays tag, taunting with names they know not themselves, running to catch Him, but only finding the edge of everything itself, vanishing into powerful darkness. Does this make sense? The line between insanity and greatness is fluid. Unseeingly thin in areas where it is deemed one in a million (billion) or exceedingly thick where it is locked away from sight and sound, the key going with it. The difference is minute and great – such is the same with stars and turtles. Such is the same with stories. The stars and turtles colliding in a chasm of perspective (great) creativity (chaos), a few lucky ones making it to the water and past the waves, a few lucky ones actually illuminating the face of an admirer or guiding the way of a lost traveler in the night. Who is to judge whether or not that line is thick or thin? Great or minute? Turtle or star? (Death or life?) This compelling chaos of potential greatness (perspective) is what the writer must wade. Finding that one turtle. Seeing that one star. The perspective is their own, as is the greatness, if the line is thin. For the reader is quick to judge and even faster to hate. This is well.

Does this make sense?

- NDC