The solid light was the drop that tipped this glass. An ice cube of impenetrable rays, filamentous, webbing within a trap for itself. It floated in the far corner of the room, which pointed outside, beyond the fragile surface of the room, but then it would change its mind and orient its angled digit towards me, accusatively.
Yet it was not my fault, the blame lay in those modest capsules holding three grains of thought: Hawaiian baby woodrose, passion flower and guarana, blended into a consciousness of its own. I had taken a couple, a glad one melting cozily inside my gut, fusing first delicately and then again, more violently, as their marriage bed contracted and crushed them, broke their body but freed their spirit, releasing their seed into me. It was they who impregnated me with these ideas, strangers to my waking mind, only familiar to my nightly wanderings.
The light melted again, its fibers now weaker, curtains that would not open, hiding the actual fabric forming my microcosm, but had they opened I would only see emptiness through and through. Let me turn my attention from this veiled mirror and onto something more appropriate for the occasion. Three candles, not the placid lake now at the corner of my eye, but roving rivers of surging life, rising knights, galloping nowhere, knowing no time nor destination but that which we may lend them, our thought bestowing them breath, one which when torn away returns them to servitude, to their physical slavery, their thirst for the balm beneath them, which they can never touch nor feel its sustenance, Tantalus threefold. But let us be merciful, return our eye to these our dancers, their ardent flamenco.
And let us dance ourselves, me and you, closely. Surrender to one another, then fall, by chance, a never-ending free descent, never culminating, not even as we lie rolling upon the floor. And as we climb the spiral stairs again, rising to the peak of the alabaster tower to fall longer still, but this time there will truly be no climax, no death to life, breath, motion, love. The joy outlived the convulsions that arched my body, ready to release its soul, an arrow into the firmament...
...it was the string that broke, the train of thought torn, the memory fragmented. That life twists itself together again where the past and future meet. I smell a rose-garden...
Yet it was not my fault, the blame lay in those modest capsules holding three grains of thought: Hawaiian baby woodrose, passion flower and guarana, blended into a consciousness of its own. I had taken a couple, a glad one melting cozily inside my gut, fusing first delicately and then again, more violently, as their marriage bed contracted and crushed them, broke their body but freed their spirit, releasing their seed into me. It was they who impregnated me with these ideas, strangers to my waking mind, only familiar to my nightly wanderings.
The light melted again, its fibers now weaker, curtains that would not open, hiding the actual fabric forming my microcosm, but had they opened I would only see emptiness through and through. Let me turn my attention from this veiled mirror and onto something more appropriate for the occasion. Three candles, not the placid lake now at the corner of my eye, but roving rivers of surging life, rising knights, galloping nowhere, knowing no time nor destination but that which we may lend them, our thought bestowing them breath, one which when torn away returns them to servitude, to their physical slavery, their thirst for the balm beneath them, which they can never touch nor feel its sustenance, Tantalus threefold. But let us be merciful, return our eye to these our dancers, their ardent flamenco.
And let us dance ourselves, me and you, closely. Surrender to one another, then fall, by chance, a never-ending free descent, never culminating, not even as we lie rolling upon the floor. And as we climb the spiral stairs again, rising to the peak of the alabaster tower to fall longer still, but this time there will truly be no climax, no death to life, breath, motion, love. The joy outlived the convulsions that arched my body, ready to release its soul, an arrow into the firmament...
...it was the string that broke, the train of thought torn, the memory fragmented. That life twists itself together again where the past and future meet. I smell a rose-garden...
...I was asking if that rose garden of yours was related by chance to the one from "Burnt Norton", and then I realized that indeed it was... :-)
ReplyDeleteKeen eye! :-)
ReplyDelete