January 16, 2018 by Jason Phillips
something glimmering on the horizon. it’s reflected on the ripples of the ocean. it raises up and you paddle gently towards it. the paddle makes a tiny splashing sound. almost a liquid tweet. a lubricated warble, as you pull back the oar with both of your aching arms. there is no other sound, just the oar and the creak of the tired boat, and the vast dead silence of the ocean. you’ve traversed every sea, and your little old boat has served you well.
gently you move, jaggedly toward the silver reflections. and the object, gently, silently rising. it unfolds huge glimmering feathered metal wings that slowly begin to fill the sky.
you rest the oar on your lap and lean back.
the phoenix unfolds in all its battered beauty. it’s been on a journey, you know not where. her wings flap huge waves ruffling toward you. she raises and raises and dwarfs you and fills the sky. shutting her eyes she raises her crooked beak to the heavens and lets out the most magnificent sound. it tells the story of a thousand species, it encapsulates the pain and joy of all life, the unified voice of all the trees that ever lived, every animal’s secrets, the exhalations of a million last moments, and the cry of a thousand lost loves. a new song that you have never heard but somehow know, and that is all that there is. and thanks to rowing every day in this rackety old creaky boat, you are here to witness it.
all of forever in one song, the uni-verse, the song of all life.
you close your eyes and allow the feel of the noise to obliterate your being into a million molecules. you become the very air that draws up into the holes in the phoenix’s beak. and then she exhales you into the final note in her song, which slowly echoes into an eternal silence.