“The more we know about our universe, the more difficult it becomes to believe in determinism.” (Ilya Prigogine)
Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars ends in green. Sometimes their story ends in red. Sometimes the story never ends and sometimes their story becomes an addiction without substance or matter.
Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is governed by the laws of physics—quantum or otherwise—and is predetermined and fixed by a universal constant that is neither universal nor constant.
Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is a story written half-asleep beneath the same stars that haunt the blue moon while one star mumbles some mumbo jumbo to the other with their backs against a wall marked with the names of deities—Vishnu, Krishna, Christ. Even though Christ is not a deity, logic doesn’t matter in the vacuum of a thermodynamic relationship.
Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars begins beneath two disco balls orbiting one another. (A stormtrooper stands on the north pole of the largest star. ) Sometimes their story is illuminated by green or red or blue light and sometimes their story is illuminated by background radiation that stores the history of the universe in every ionized particle that enters their bodies.
I was the mirrorball on the left. He was the one on the right. In the middle, an army of wingless angels said nothing that wasn’t already clear. This was their way of telling me, “this is up to you”.
Sometimes the relationship between binary stars exists in a space governed by the laws of angels and sometimes these laws breach the outer limits of reason and hope, patience and providence—and flies in the face of prayers and promises.
Sometimes the relationship between binary stars is a boomerang unaware that it is a boomerang. Sometimes the relationship is unaware of the boom and anger that fills the void between what was and what was wanted even when the void continues to give it all for just another moment in the arms of a wingless angel.
This is the memory of one star bound to another. This is the memory of a language that never existed. This is the memory of two imaginary numbers—11 and 22—that equaled catastrophe, not genius. This is the universe at left and right angles. From above and below. Beyond and between. This is a photon and phosphorescence and the cosmic power of the electromagnetic spectrum. This is discordance and dissonance. This is (or was) an accretion disk around a black hole at the center of a manufactured galaxy.
This is the real autobiography of binary stars which means this is (or was) real, yet determined to be de-iced and deactivated. This is one star’s stand against the theory of dissipative structures while the structure itself dissipates like sandcastles do when built too close to shore. This is one star’s deranged child disturbing a flock of insane seagulls on a beach that washes away or disappears or disperses his (or his) tiny footprints (discreetly) over time.
Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is bound and subjugated to the impossibility of escaping gravity and hope. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the stars find their present selves wrapped up in a past of their own comfortable invention standing on tiptoes in a graveyard beneath an impenetrable sky oblivious to the sloppy writing on the wall.
This is an autobiography that ends with old friends sitting on a rocking chair on opposing sides of the galaxy looking for a light in the dark that’s just a photon reflected in eyes of angels.