Who can help me now?
I have fed your saintly light my body over and over, till it becomes so bright it blocks out the sun. But soon the artifacts of me, my life, have run dry and there is neither you or the sun I scorned for its apathetic distance.
You have filled me with nothing but hot air and plunged me into darkness.
It is familiar. No shadows fall here. It swallows everything with wieght, flattens it out and slips it away through cracks in the floor.
- I rememer now, this is the place you were born; divine beings in touch with that ancient magic used to put stars in the sky and fill vessels with a binding faith (so bright it sears away peripheral vision).
Complete dark is akin to non-existence; light creates mass and mass becomes the rolling mounds of flesh that are the self. The self is thinking, breathing, no longer clay, no longer paper wadded between the table leg and the foorboards.
From here some people pull God. They still suffer for mysterious reasons in mysterious ways but know it will make sense in the next life and there it will be ripe with purpose.
The more I look the darker it becomes.
Every-other living thing in the universe accelerates away from me at an increasing rate, the path taken extending like a corridor to the very end.
At the very end there is my own face
(which I can’t quite see)
and it looks at me, smiling. She knows we could be here for a while.
I pull her out. I raise her up. I feel like a narcissit but it doesn’t matter.
We accelerate at an increaing rate towards something else and
I feel Divine.
I feel like a powerful woman.
I feel I may burst into flame.
I look at her face.
It is undeniably foreign, but I am learning to recognise myself.
The features must exist without hyperbole:
It is not so bad and not as frightful as the demon that was tall, dark and omminious, hunched despite brushing against the ceiling.
I am open to feeling now; not just abstractions.
I feel good, I am trying to feel good – trying makes it real if not natrual.
Feeling, I know, is the only thing, the only way we stumble through the world. We donot create, only feel when we let ourselves.
I am letting myself feel along every neural passage. I let it burn and burn, branding me with the sensation
(what a joy!)
I cry, I scream in pleasure, in anguish (the eyes roll back in my skull) and I let it wash over me like some great tidal wave, swallowed by feeling and what it is to be alive. I look back at myself with colour in her face, in her eyes and –
– I am learning to listen and to nurture. I feed her fresh fruit and let her soak in the bath as long as she needs.
She can have as long as she needs.