By Ken Baumann - Oct 22, 2018
At night, driving home, I had a beautiful and nauseating experience. Snow was falling sideways, parallel to the earth and straight into my car. No other vehicles were on the road; no lamps shined on the highway; my car’s headlights alone lit the snowfall. When I focused on the snow, it appeared I was moving trillions of miles per hour in outer space, plunging past all the stars. My perspective seemed the center of everything. Each second I drove down the highway I shot past every possible life, moving towards a final darkness. My body caught up with the truth of my eyes: I was moving so fast I couldn’t be moving at all; the universe was speeding past, was moving around me. I forgot I was driving for a few seconds, then remembered that I could very easily kill myself if I kept forgetting. That I could focus on something great and terrible and die because of it; if I stared only at the unnameable center formed by the stars I would crash, but would have followed the logic of the off-worldly. The possibility was so beautiful it was sickening—or the beauty was so deathly it made me ill. When I got home, I wondered if I’d ever again feel the scale at which gods live. I worry that I got as close as I can get.