Becoming

Life, a fleeting shortcut
carved in the fabric of matter,
a sly betrayal of stillness.
It leaps,
like electric arcs splitting the silence,
hungry, reckless,
seeking the path of least resistance.


We are sparks in the storm,
blades slicing through the heavy air of existence,
not for glory,
but for ease—
a stabilization of chaos,
a balm for the ceaseless ache of energy
yearning to unravel.


Entropy is the god we kneel to
unknowingly,
its whispers buried in the crackle of flame,
the hiss of plasma,
the glint of starlight.
Every motion, every breath,
a calculated offering to
the inevitable decay,
a prayer for balance written in ruin.


Yet the current bends us forward,
pulling us through matter and meaning,
through birth,
through death,
through the luminous agony
of becoming.
We burn brightly, but not for long.


What are we,
but a passage through which the universe sighs?
Flesh and thought—
mere shortcuts in time’s spiral.
Even the stars bow to entropy,
their hearts collapsing into singularities,
their brilliance just a fleeting rebellion.


But energy cannot be still—
it must sear,
it must leap,
it must burn itself out.
So we surge forward,
arcs of radiant decay,
burning a path through the aching tapestry of flesh and bone.


Perhaps this is why we dream—
to reach beyond our cages,
to let our charge extend to the edges of the infinite,
where flesh cannot follow.
And perhaps this is why we die—
to finally let go of the current,
to fall into the quiet
where electricity forgets it ever sparked at all.


Perhaps we are the same.
Perhaps this life—
this trembling, fiery arc—
is only the universe exhaling,
choosing chaos
because stillness costs too much.