You and I are perhaps the oddities
of a cookie-cutter society; the bright spots
on the universal mind that show up as
“questionable” in CT scans and MRIs. 
Your wild visions entice you; mine remain
in sacred silence.  I fear that if I speak
them aloud I will see in them a foolishness
blatantly concealed.  My fragile state of mind cannot
afford a moment of doubt; without my assurance of
nothingness to keep me sane,
I would shatter into nonexistence.
We are perhaps pretentious, something
of jagged edges, and absolutely a little
insane.  Yet that isn’t important; the ones who
see things with vision less obscured are
often full of quirks
and prone to subnormal spasms of thought.
Considering, it makes sense that
the ones who have at least an inkling
of the universe are spaced so far apart.
Maybe our placement is purposeful.  Perhaps
we are situated so as to dilute the
boldness that comes along with
knowledge of our utter insignificance.  

We are seen as pessimistic; people shy
away from what they perceive as negative
energy, but we do not think or preach
in the manner in which we do with the intent
to instill fear or gloom into the earth’s crevices.  
We merely know that in the grand scheme
of things a blip in a galaxy’s heart monitor
doesn’t alter a thing about the truth of the universe,
whatever it may be.  We see the Sneeches on their beaches,
and whether they’re Star-bellied Sneeches or
Sneeches without five points
to their name, we see them both for
what they are, and treat them just the same.
We see that there is stardust and energy and gravity and matter,
but these things come and go.  They shift
and break apart and reform as easily as
the tiny droplets in a pool of cooking oil.  The frying pan
is still the frying pan no matter what its
contents do. There are objects and humans
and faraway planets, and all are made up
of matter, but the very fact of that is in itself
ironic.  Matter doesn’t make things matter.  Horton
heard a Who, but it didn’t matter who the Who was,
because the Who to Horton was smaller than a speck, and just as
insignificant as we are to the Hortons of our universe.
This is not to say that we should not exist at all;
that our presence is pointless.  We both know
that.  We matter to ourselves, and to others, and
that is simultaneously so much and nothing at all
because at the
same time that we find significance, our existence does not affect
the eternal cycle of nothingness.  Sam I am, but it doesn’t
matter if I am or am not; if I have or have not.  Green eggs and ham
can exist without their Sam I am.

Some people find the concept of eternal
nonbeing daunting, or perhaps even terrifying.
For you, and for me, it can be infuriating,
but I know that I do not speak alone
when I say that I often find it to be a
comfort.  Granted, we're a little twisted,
perhaps a tad psychedelic, but at least our
eyes are open.  Some may scoff;
refer to us as irresponsible
lunatics, but it matters not.
Call me crazy, kooky, capricious, but I prefer
to wear the three-D glasses rather than to
stare blankly at a flat, unordinary screen.
We are erratic; that I do not deny.  We are
metaphorical and imaginative and
have a tendency to be a little
black and white. 

Still, I think it is better to be afraid of oblivion
than to be blind to the
great and intricate truths of
the universe.  I could not be ignorant even
if I so desired, for even the blind, though they do not
see its light,
cannot be oblivious to the feel
of the sunrays on their skin.