torn asunder, severed in twain

I'm up late for the first time in a few weeks, and Pulp Fiction playing on VH1 doesn't afford the companionship I am craving. The only other alternative I see at this point in time is to consider the higher powers that be; to acknowledge the startling fact that we are never as alone as we think. Metaphysics once again serve as a conversation with an old friend we haven't called in a while -that sometimes calls us when we forgot their number was still on our contacts lists. They call us in the middle of the night and draw our attention away from both the infamous "Ned and Zed" scene bogged with "Deliverance" references, and previews for the newest Mike Meyers piece of garbage alike. Something tells me I shouldn't bother my mind with such trifles anyway.
I was down at festival tonight when lighting started flashing in distance, forking in the south and east, framed in the gap between two buildings. I was in Calder Plaza, amid the tents and pennants that call to mind Medieval carnivals of old. It's usually such a deserted place. On Sunday afternoons the clock towers ring and the tolls echo off the buildings and sculpture, causing a haunting sensation of a deserted city. To see it so uncharacteristically filled with people is a sight I am not accustomed to.
The lighting, or perhaps the rain who's coming it surly foretold, was the starter's pistol shot that hailed the mass exodus of the masses. As I walked back to my car, I thought of the lighting's power.
"The boundary between our world and the next is torn asunder!" I said to a friend, "It has been severed in twain!"
This seemingly exaggerated exclamation (as are in my nature to cry), caused me to dwell on the poignant potential of lighting. Many hours later, my thoughts once again turned towards it. I was smoking on the back patio of my apartment, sheltered from the rain by the deck of the Indian family who live above us. The lighting clawed all around, so large I subconsciously ducked, as if some missile was tossed at my head.
Here was my thought:
What if the boundary between our physical world and the spiritual world beyond us was much closer and much thinner than many of us are inclined to think? Perhaps lighting really is the cracking of said boundary -and for one instant we were granted the briefest of glimpses into the blinding, sheer white light of everything else we cannot imagine? -the tiniest peek through the door of the waiting room that is our life? And the thunder that follows is the deafening slam of said door, or maybe the incomprehensible shock of such an unnatural boundary being broken?
I know, I know. Lighting is just protons and electrons, expanding and the like, and the universal is much better hidden from our ignorant, finite eyes. But what if?
Each bolt is not just a crack, but an open window with no screen? The physical world we occupy is no splitting egg shell, it is a void with volume, and lighting occasionally strikes the ground, sometimes housed, trees and people. Then those houses, trees, and people are caught in the crack -feet in the door between the temporal and universal. Heaven crashing down, too much for our small delicate frames to handle, consumed in energy five times hotter than the sun. Fried in place, gold necklaces welded solid into skin.
Then I thought of those war movies showing men marching at night, with artillery shells bursting in the distance, causing flashes not unlike lighting just over the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, to be caught in the center of that burst is to be ushered directly into the next world too.
The end of the world is something like this snow globe we call a world crashing on the floor of the universe, and all the glass we call a sky shatters, leaving the city that was always there but without the water and plastic snow that flies creating chaos, blinding the citizens and and confusing all. All the lighting will strike at once, and in a blinding light that contains all the colors there are, everything that prevents us from moving forward on our due path will be ripped away leaving clear, obstructionless sight which we will find unrecognizable because we have been snowbound for so long. Then the Spring of the ages will begin -Aslan Style.

wishful, simplistic thinking.
the ponderings of a GRCC student just out of freshmen year.

God the creator of all would not be so easy -so trite- to comprehend.



Julius' quotation of Ezekiel is entirely fictional. Don't waste your time looking it up. Vh1 edits the movie thickly, layer upon layer, drowning in stew, bastardizing in until it's barley recognizable from the original; the xerox of a xerox of a xerox.
The motorcycle Bruce Willis rides away on is named "Grace." Symbolism can sometimes be cheap as well.