Atavism

I become a beast beneath you, insensate in the clutch of drives that leapt and spawned on the shores of some longago primordial stew, its waters frenzied by the surging hot convections of life, its sands scattered beneath savage feet, corrugated by the moulding inexorable rhythms of the tides. All reason leaves my brain to fly pell-mell down the neurons of my spine, my throat, my every joint and extremity, in rampant pulsations that speak from a universe ten million years gone. What sounds my laryngeal apparatus can shape, evolved to all such complexities as abstraction and design require, have drained away to dark, uncharted caverns, leaving only the most gutteral and gravid of uncouth vocalities to express in spiraling bedlam these passions that have claimed and now obliterate the higher corners of my mind.

Upon a plateau of aeons long since effervesced into dust, I behold archaic stars and the Hephaestean trails of comets streaking the sky with ironic fire as they pound and pound and pound the molten orb of our world with their freights of ice and iron, birthing oceans in a rain of steam and flame.

For how long am I the inchoate planet, the elementary animalcule, the exquisitely wordless and tremoring ape, new to bipedalism and joyful to shed it for motions less refined yet titanic in their capacity to transport?

Somewhere within me the lizard arches its back and gasps, or hisses, or possibly belches the most unsapient croak.

And, slowly, time and history dawn and return the two of us to sentience, civility, elegance, and the most rarefied of bliss. Epochs of fire in wildly painted caves dim from our eyes, replaced with a clarion sunshine through curtained crystal windowpanes. Grammar and vocabulary assert their existential whereabouts in the pinnacled environs of our cortices.

There is, though, in a moment such as this, so little to say.

Except with perhaps a mildly deranged grin,

WOOF.