*****
The stream of light at God speed headed toward the sun at superhuman speed. No struggle to stop, free falling … recirculation, entryway, an exit once was. Paddle wheel was spinning while allowing access. Medium of motion vibrated: carried pulse waves from one place to another and told the prodigal returned that he was not alone in this place. Fragment syllabics carried from Cartesian coordinate points on three-dimensional planes to a second effectively zero light-years away, time passage to travel just as negligible. Communiqué accepted, rejected, spewed forth out of one form and accepted back into the other. The syntax offered for consideration. Dilation, then constriction pulsated in a stream of molecular matter. Wavelengths familiar, sinusoidal motions locked away, pinned down in neuromatter memory unigrams by permanent physical alterations.
Moon glow shimmering in silence, hazed behind a mask of shadows haloed by the same: traits of both demon and angel given by a lone influence. Split down the middle and divided, goat and sheep along the rift, chasm, dualism made evident in this schizophrenic shift thereafter beside itself always revealed in the incomplete thought, the incomplete image. Lunar orb shone with a light not its own—I know the feeling.
Now lightning and thunder descended atop the streaming band of vomit. Ambient light for an instant imbues pillars of salt, all in the snapshot created. Whitewashed tombs that had been dark only to flee again wallow in the dishallowed halls of Hades. Impact of the image of light upon, always forces change of form: solid, liquid, then gas to light. The once-solid pillar melted and was taken up in the flow it had hindered, split, ignoring that the current caused capture within it. Rebellion from any given set of standards caused strict adherence to another. Difference negligible at best, end result the same.
Following the bends of the liquid always and selectively, or else mindlessly, water sought its own level. Middle ground tricky business subject to reproach. Comprehend? It’s a never-ending story. Therefore go: go, and let the liquid guide you, but never lead. Follow the rivers of consciousness along the lines known best. Only then can one rise as a gas. Come to me again and again and again and rest; I might grant you, choice remains—choice of how to remain. Choice of return to yours, but watch out: the carrot dangles on the stick.
Reply, perfunctory in nature, given as forward momentum, continues. Law of inertia: an object in motion tends to remain, such as one at rest tends to motion resist. Cliché followed by cliché … point made in passing. Platitudes. Worse it could be, yet that is true of most all. Could be worse, the me, universal or solar at the very least.
I wish to lie down: to be another son of another mother. Return. Look on the dollar-store shelf and become someone else with ease. Perhaps I could have done something if I were. Perhaps if I had been designated the messiah just once? I only condemned so that He could forgive. Usually want to give more to that special someone than you have to give, and still the thought runs through the mind that someone else might be able to offer more, so why not me? Salvation not an option, no matter how much effort I put forth. Tried my damnedest;. I can now apologize.
Out of sight, out of mind—good-bye, cruel world. To the gates—an archway of ninety-degree angles—and these gates of a heaven open, though far from the pearly gates promised. I once spied the promised land, looked incomplete from where I stand. Then spews the flood; with blessings I will shower you. Slide open, shafts glisten, dancing in a dazzling display of liquid light. Step aside. Gravitational pull incessant. The flow improper to be caught in: destination incorrect—not my star. Not my star! By Jove, into the tram of heavens, cable tied to the night sky, tower of babbling at any hour. Choose your destin(y)ation. Twenty three, psalmist numerical equivalent well-known, who is my shepherd. Who? I rose up from green pastures. Oh, but you don’t know about the rivers there. When the sun is gone, color fades. Valley of the shadow of … breathe, last. Sigh. Inside, the gates close. Momentum shifts upward.
All have fallen, let fall, seventh-inning slump. Self-induced autism, the outside is dead, universe of om wind preferred. Solipsism effective in the confines of the sons of men. Convince the mind and the perception of reality (which is dictated to be reality by the definition of the said term; therefore the perception of reality can be removed without recourse for more accuracy) will then follow. Rewrite definition for space currently occupied by several-inch-thick sheets of the written word; now transmuting to nothing/absence of. Close the windows, so the impression on the inside fades while blocked by the blinds. Reopen. Claim there’s nothing there; say there’s nothing there; even believe there’s nothing there. But it’s there, still. Beliefs contrary but kept in confines of that lowly, three-brained creature; it could still change—always probable, never possible.
Numeral: second in sequence of generally used illuminated with pale yellow amber replacing the light gray of instants ago. Motion continued upward, like a waterfall in reverse, Turbulence in the windless shaft to the heavens: trust lacking in many therefore. What if there’s a fire, prolonged stop, severed cable? Coffin made, trapped within a box while the world falls apart outside. No better place to be: hear it all as it comes down. Will the last trumpet be heard, or will it have to be spelled out for you? T-e-m-p-e-s-t.
Yes, the end is here, but do you need to be hit on the head? I took them as far as the physical could possibly go. I pushed the envelope, brought the light to the tiniest point of void, to the tiniest quark. A courteous player death proved to be: grace of a long, drawn-out illness with end in sight. Modern medicine allowed clear picture of the final day. Not always—an instant, sometimes, such a tragedy we never saw it coming, how could we expect this? Suffering was inevitable, but so was its end. Told life will flash before the eyes just before then. Bright lightbulb, camera’s strobe, flash set to one last exposure—rather than drawing in images, vomiting out the ones passed.
I wonder where that started: who died so that they could say their life flashed before their eyes … and somehow lived to tell about it? History possibly able to name a few truly dead and resurrected, but by now, they’re dead all over again. Ever stop to think and, remembering to start once again, consider that maybe the life running before and into your soul’s windows did so because you didn’t die? You never tasted death? Glad for second chance? Your own second coming? Know then, I will not have a second coming—don’t have time to wait for. It won’t be long now anyway. All short stops on much longer trip, awaiting the honeymoon. But it’s only a dream; bring the consciousness back to reality; it’s all in the dream.
If there is no marriage, then how will that follow? Honeymoon, dream, it’s not real. Bridegroom and bride drink from the river of life, it’s but a dream … next Arabic symbol highlighted with the same color as the last. If one, then two, and if time allows, then obviously three. So on, so on … soon, however, the sequence is not indefinite everlasting. Upper bounds, limit as x approaches infinity. Rules, universal language, the specific dialect founded by a man (and concurrently by another) who watched an apple fall. It’s the definition of a derivative. A universal, therefore applied to all things: limit of a singular human life as it approached the undeniable (given time, denial being a psychological stage of slowly coming to accept most difficult facts of existence) end. Sometimes you win, others you lose (always with others), but the game is ultimately played by all at some point. Paradox indeed: outcome being the same for everyone, yet victory for some, defeat for others. Only two options, really, a no decision not being at issue, just a stalling for time. Win. Lose. Last moment before the eyes close, determining instant if opportunity reflection given. Look back? Inner dialogue flash and then the regrets flow. “Oh my God, what have I done with my—” Or more along the lines of “Yes, yes, if only I would have done this or that … If Woody would have gone straight to the police … Pillars of salt all.” Who knows: light at the end of the tunnel (which one is that? … maybe blackout only?
The gates of heaven opened once more, and … not yet his st
op. Enter another. Another path, number, choice, highlighted option in amber glow. Hello, he said in monotone. Nothing offered, nothing gained. Let alone ventured. What is to be expected does in fact follow—lips mine open to whisper, a fragment. Deception tasted so sweet … Deception … I needed only point in the direction, why not that? It was your creatures who divided their brains into three.
Hell—an under-breath evocation of air with little or no substance behind it. Summoning, invocation … of a sigh formed in two syllables. Eyes drop; how can the head be so heavy when in one and out the other is possible? Gray matter lacking where? Indifference observed as more evil than hatred. Suicide bombers therefore the lesser evil; they are still passionate, the greater being the indwellers who remove themselves as part of a society. Ignoring something, or detachment, is worse than destroying it: any structure can crumble from indifference, just as simply as they can be destroyed by detonation. Velocity the only anomalous factor, speed the variable. Constant: destruction assured. Once my sole domain, I embodied putrefaction; I embodied the gloam, kept a third dying to secure the belief in the limit of death.
He traveled farther up, in silence now. The ether exhaled with a still, quiet shaking. Time passed well enough on its own, beyond the ability of anyone to add or detract. Perception only changed. Its constant beat, a 4/4 series of quarter notes, seemed to vary if circumstances changed. Immutable, the fourth dimension was just as constant as the first three; the same rules applied. A mile would always be a mile, but it could seem like less or more (when walking as opposed to taking a ride in a car, for example).
A funeral dirge recounting the circles ran before him, rising to dramatic heights, reaching for the apex, climax, yes! It swooned thereafter to the depths of the ocean, pulled under by a riptide, recanting. March on, stop? No! Proceed instead for the (less than) climatic conclusion. More stories end with an air of resignation than a melodious bang. Brief reflection, ambiance fading, and then gone … still frame of Kodak moment, joy/sorrow/tears/laughter. A flicker, a whisper, a sigh … everyone lives, so why can’t I? Some will live, but all must die. If A is, then B will come, but B may be present in the absence of A … 14x + | 15 | = | 71 | a hundred thousand beginnings may bring about the same end (in select cases have even been shown to coincide with one another—life and a life at the same instant). The start doesn’t matter, because everyone knows the ending and how to get there. Denial, still, on some level in all: shades of grey or gray. May darker or lighter be, yet the windows of human brains are cloudy to begin with and therefore lack accuracy; I directed them all to the abyss. All possess some degree of color blindness, monochromes all. Fade to gray … Chemical imbalance, three brained creatures, content to live the superficial life of sense, genetically impaired, born between intellect and will, where is the love?
Mathematical representative of incompleteness (origin of evil) displayed. Six, sex, sin. And don’t they all chase that beast? Relationship drawn easily noticeable; I recognized it first and then created linear thought. Base for faith is evil, not good (if there is no evil, then there is no sin, and if there is no sin, there cannot be need for redemption; if there is no need for redemption, there is no need for confession, and if there is no need for confession, there is no need for salvation, if there is no need of salvation, there is no need for men of the cloth; with a lacking need for clerics, there is no need for religion and therefore faith; if there is no wrong, then all is right by default). My consciousness quivers with remembrance … all the deceptions unfold and the word made straight … I deceived with delight, tempted, and then pointed the accusing finger … I was the anointed one … carried the light … forced them against their will to see the light … e = mc squared. Abracadabra, squared cm = e, arbadacarba, they could only perceive the destruction. If A, then B; if six, then seven. If blank, then blank. If evil comes, good will follow? Opposite shown in creation story: inherent perfection given, corruption followed; contrarily shown in ending story: evil taken (by force, rather than coercion or choice, free will, freedom?) Free will stopped? Replaced forever with good? Obedience to precept is a new concept for some … The fear of god is the beginning of wisdom. Love multiplies when it is divided. No one can plan farther than they can envision, God help us with the eternal perspective.
The gates reopened; he was left alone now—left to his home, presumably, or perhaps to another’s. Nobody wanted to be alone; even the arms of a stranger left one wanting more. Companionship was the ultimate goal; reunion was always joyful event, joining another and becoming one. A best friend was the one you could stay with for eons and never speak a word. Awkward silence was never the issue. A shoulder to lean on was something to be desired. A companion who knows all of your weaknesses but only shows your strength. Someone to share with, darkness or light—that’s not what’s important, only need a split second of sustainable light … to feel eternally loved. Sturm’s theorem in play now, back to the roots.
He was now in his final turn. First cow on the right, straight on ’til morning (nearly, seems eternity to go further)—what is affectionately known as home stretch (how condescending!). Drought brought to climax; only a few fragments remain, the sum total of all the parts now discerned, stream motioning still from incline downward. Does that savior call home my orb as well (more accurately, call home what I did not)? Wary of asking, as most here wary of strangers, even more so under the shroud of darkness. Why not? I cast the shadows of doubts, and stand long and tall does he. The eternal flame of truth beckons me … in the ink-black ether of void; distinguish one from the other … daunting task. Still, the eyes say nothing in between new moons, away from amber glow, night turned to day reverts to the animal self, my purpose achieved.
Matter of perspective is all: see what you want to see (you don’t see me). Do I even see me? Truth be known, it was a game of sibling rivalry, and I was none the wiser. Next dash of amber reminds me it’s not such a small world after all. The eyes say different, yet how is difference apparent? When the only shade is gray, black and white strangely absent from this picture. Two colors meant separate, poured out one atop another and left for the rain. My red and green lines, once so lovely to feel, once so lovely to be, fade to gray. Black and white that I no longer see, and only the giant sphere of light before my eyes is real to me. Return to the first station, return as the anointed cherubim. The prodigal son returns, burn off the dross.
The stream of light crashed into the sun. A strange phenomenon, the stream of light danced around the sun, splashing in and out, diving, and looping. The stream released a sigh of resignation, and then it was completely absorbed. And the sun grew very quiet.
“I am” at play
How can there be, but circles of … see?
A perception of nothing’s … infinities
what is, what was and what ever shall be
inverting illusions … spec dualities.
Boiling hot light, waves tiding in dance,
inversely freezing … in thermal romance
end rationales where “there is,” never starts,
palpitates, racing in soon-to-be hearts?
Where every word of this mystery
Whispers, “Just what can I be?”
Springing forth from the fountain
of what magic “might be.”
Confused? All is nothing! Full’s empty! … Aye! … Nay!
Full … yet so empty, this “is” I am “at play.”
Birthing the Lucifer star Page 40
