.passages.
Temporary Always and Only
ONE
A shudder pains my spine from the base of my neck down to my hips. My armour will decay. A knight in shining flesh. A lightning white horse with pitch black eyes. A disgusting, dark terrain roaring to the storm. The rain is heavy and my steed is silent. A whisper of ours would blemish the moment. My deaf ears cannot take any more punches. The muted wind stings my numb face and presses my sheath against my tassets. This gargantuan Earth mocks my frail existence. This will be the last page in my book.
My dream is to sleep on sacred gauze in my Mother’s cradle. In pure, encompassing light that inspires growth when my eyes are shut. An everlasting limbo from which I will not wake, and become contented with death. My mind thinks simple thoughts and loosens its grip on the physical plane. My only sense of maternal love shifts to a dense pebble stone in my core. A carefully placed memento which contains my entire self. My exterior resonates into nonexistence. I am overwhelmed but unmistakeably fulfilled by this endless void of which I now am. Even the simplest of thoughts have become impossibly complex and my only perspective is spiritual.
Realisation builds. Your deepest regret that could not be relinquished manifests. That aching burden is sprawling and your needle consciousness expands to your chest. Tedious discomfort conducts panic. Their body is trapped and even the faintest twitch will shatter the illusion. You will not snuff out these puzzling voices, and your environment will become monotonously familiar. That dragon will hatch from the flailing thorns and you shall be reborn. Your jinx just floats around, like the taste inside your mouth. You must find meaning in this misery. Your filthy carcass will slump into motion and pull its mass from the grave, and your haze will live with you until tomorrow.
TWO
Plaid on plaid and crosses in tongues. A tesseract checkerboard. A fractal glyph which my callused palms hold. Its detail is offensive and bizarre. It breaks from my hand as will I from this jail. My golden sanctum of archways and bells. This architecture stretches its air thin and wheezes dust. No carpet’s tapestry will meet Gwyndolin’s sight which calls from my barred windows. This neck-height sand you store will not smother me yet.
My dream is to sleep on hellish peaks in Mother Gaia’s wrath. In dormant, uncomfortable shadow that haunts me when my eyes are shut. An everlasting death from which I will not escape, and become contented with life. My mantras will become impossible enigmas, and my tongue will be nailed to my jaw. My only sense of ruthless hate shifts to a dense pebble stone in my core. A carefully placed memento which contains my entire self. My torso jolts me awake. I am terrified but unmistakeably enlightened by this nightmare. My only perspective is primal.
O’ Heretic Gwyndolin come. I pray your patent judgement will know my sincerity and dispel my curse. He cries and cries and cries and cries. His crest has sustained timelessly paradoxical. I beg of you forgiveness, my guilt is incredible. Your heresy attunes mine and elucidates my consuming loss. My grief is immortal, I beg of you pardoning, I beg of you absolution. Imposturous jeweller who has gifted me this medallion, a famously delicate keepsake inscribed with only suffering. I must call to humanity of heightened wisdom to forebode my fate, for I cannot trust a cloaked visage. You promise only love, only life and only peace. What must I do to cement my place in your heaven?
Gwyndolin stands some feet from the edge of the megastructure, prophetic and wise. I can sense that my story will be etched in her chronicle.