Filling the Hole

(Barely) holding this all together, the black hole at the center of the universe, the black holes punctuating the centers of a billion various galaxies, all convene and, in agreement, conspire to balance all that matters (or matters not) in the precarious tensions of creation and annihilation.  For some, for the ambitious, the nervously religious, the young lovers with the burgeoning obligations in the ingenue's elastic womb (another center for the gravity, another black hole), the very idea of this dance between destruction and expansion is unnerving, unspoken, and unspeakable, left for the crowded nightmares in which everything is falling, sinking, going away.  For the others--the beatniks, the existentialists, the goths with raw red fingers and black glass nails--for those for whom their hopelessness is hope, they do not curse the blackness nor fear it.  To fill the hole, they become it and give it different names...

Thus the universe is made out of the infinity of desire, the infinity of revulsion.  And life, with its fascination with need, with emptiness, is beholden to the same quantum physics.  The hole in my heart seeks love.  The hole in my soul seeks god.  The hole in my belly is hunger.  The hole down below is lust.  I want to be full, pregnant, sated.  My brain seeks the fullness of knowing.  But, in our haste to find an antidote to nothingness, we miss the genius that is contained and is itself at the center of all these black holes.