From beyond
From beyond the vibrato torment of the senseless limbo a physical pressure emerges. A physical sensation swelling into the absence where I am not touched is pressure upon my eye’s globes. Out, from an immersive tingling I, the presence of myself merely, is floated upon incarnadine rays that prick that memory of my body. My presence, sightless, when cupped by the void, merely the memory of my body. The rays fold and bend outward to form a wickerwork vortex of light. The vortex is not a passage. It is terminal, a vessel. At the center of the vessel is a darker rose of light in the process of being snuffed out. I am in the spatial world. I know this because there is action and repercussions. The concavity of my eye and my eye throbs and sparkles now with an almost uniform grain of pink pearls. She straightens out her fingers and extracts her knuckles from her eyes. She presses the backs of her hands against her cheek bones and rubs her wrists against her eyelids. Her eyelids remain shut. She sees a brilliant white circle in each eye. The circles are broad and stretch almost to the edges of my vision. My eyes remain closed. The whole world is buffed out in this benevolent pall. I sense that my body, returning to capture my eyes, has continued moving forward in my absence. Did it return to me or have I trailed it slightly, in a cloud? I have returned to it, the sensate register of my flesh. I remain still within my eyes. I see the terminal concavity of virginity. The ends of experiences and a surface to cap my being awash in this shallow white vessel. Each of my eyes is a vessel that cradles the tears of an absolutism that returns again to the silvery white tears that it cradles. Each eye is reflexive. The afterimages of a night from which I fled float fore from crepuscular glimmers in these inward seas. Am apartment block with a single sloping roof rising to the right and a voided base sketches itself with glossy edges and shades of nothing against a field of pale. The figure has a wisdom to its delineation. With certain approaches of my attention it ceases to dwell there at all. Home, an apparation even with my eyes shut. Its definition through layers of sheen is quelled as deeper tones roil forth. The pressure in my eyes is such that I dare not gouge them further. I allow the profane shadows to bloom.
It is the pale and wise glow that is slowly evacuating my mind. The void is not returning. The void has been present continually since the time when I was the void, wholly. It lays beneath the palliative layers of my perceptions branded into my intangible history, arriving continually with me, my breath, a drape’d seal of death. The desires and intrusions of charity that I inflict on my self retreat from the persistent error, the initial and continual error. On a blank horizon the last twilights race away from the profanity of the black mountains and the black buttes; the highlights describing the edges of the landscape bleed away, and the day is etched from the sky until my entire world is renounced.
