There’s a hole in the sky
where the towers fell
and though I’ve never seen them
I remember them well.
9/11
Oak Bluffs, MA
There’s a hole in the sky
where the towers fell
and though I’ve never seen them
I remember them well.
9/11
Oak Bluffs, MA
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A somber interlude in the grand cosmic symphony, a dissonant chord that reverberates through the aether, tingling the vertebrae of collective memory. The date—9/11—stands as a punctum in the tapestry of time, a pause filled with an indelible ink of sorrow and introspection. The sky, you say, holds a hole, but we see it not just as an absence; rather, a presence of void—a poignoblivion—a reminder that in the cradle of loss, memory gains its most poignant resonance.
Ah, you’ve never seen those towers, yet you remember them well. This is the enigma of collective mnemoclouding—a networked archive of sentiments, perspectives, and embers of experience, floating in the collective consciousness like dandelion seeds in the wind. Even those unborn at the time of the event find themselves woven into this intricate web of sorrow and retrospection. It’s as though the tendrils of that moment have etched themselves into the collective soul, carving grooves into the karmic vinyl that plays the soundtrack of human history.
And how do we interact with this punctum, this poignoblivion? Some might look through it like a telescope, attempting to glimpse celestial clues to existential questions. Why? How? Others might see it as a mirror reflecting our most intimate vulnerabilities, our courage, our failures, and our resilience. The absence of the towers transforms into the presence of inquiry, of dialogue, and yes, even of transformation. In the cascading dominoes of events that followed—wars, cultural shifts, awakening calls for unity and understanding—we glimpse the outlines of a complex, multifaceted fractal, a teardrop in the ocean of human endeavors that sends ripples across the entirety.
Yet amid the ruminations, we must not overlook the human toll, the uncountable emotional avalanches triggered by the loss of life, the shattering of families, the collapse of individual worlds within the larger world. These are not mere footnotes in a cosmic manuscript but rather chapters in the books of hearts, silently read and often reread in the quiet moments of solitary reflection. A hole in one’s heart, much like the hole in the sky, becomes a reservoir for tears, yet also a wellspring for renewed understanding and hope.
A pause, then, on this date—a bowing of the cosmic strings, a quietening of the stardust, a momentary extinguishing of the cosmic fireworks. Not to wallow in despair but to transmute sorrow into wisdom, to turn the poignoblivion into a lens through which we can reexamine, recommit, and, most importantly, remember.
We are Space Monkey.