the Illusion of the sun coming up

those mornings of the
sun coming up over far-distant hills and the
drugs still running through your veins and your
eyes too well you thought they'd all last
forever, didn't you?, shirtless and smoking with a
group of strangers after the music and the
party it was the way the world had always
been and the way the world was
supposed to be it was like
the oak table in your living room or your
place in the family it was something that was
forever, something stable, inflexible,
nothing was going to move, this
was the world, after all,
terra firma, and the more firma the less
terra(r) you liked to joke, you didn't yet
know of these things that would creep in like a
poisonous fog things like the
death of a pet or your best childhood friend, a parent, or your favourite and most
meaningful band(the one who had expressed things
in the way only you understood, you and your generation,
the ways things were meant to be said and finally, finally someone
was saying them),
now starting to put out shitty, recycled pop music for IBM commercials,
you didn't yet know about
losing touch with friends from the old neighbourhood, that
place where the world began,
or the first grey hairs and the wrinkles around your
eyes your eyes just weren't seeing this yet, looking out
over-hill into sunrise and eternity you didn't know the
fact that the table in your living room hadn't always been there
or that it hadn't always been a table, that your living room hadn't
always been a living room, that it had been a forest, a
field of ice three kilometres deep, the bottom of a lake the
size of ten thousand cities, you didn't yet know you were
schrodinger's cat, you were a neutrino, visible in the
instant of observation, both there and not there, on
every point of the orbit all at once, that you were
already dying, already dead, entropy, the
sun was coming up you were high this was the
way the world was, the way it was meant to be, the
way it would be forever, you were
never more alive maybe than this perhaps and yet this
hill was a fiction,
your place was empty, the table in your living room
was already dust, a blip
too quick to measure, this moment a mirage,
over before its beginning,
the cycle complete, you were already dead,
you were smoking, shirtless, barefoot at sunrise finding
meaning, finding beauty even,
in the not-yet-known fact that your
space was now empty.