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Food for Thought: Aurora Once, there was sweet nothing. Velvet warmth, a snug darkness——enveloping, shrouding, protective. A nurturing milkiness ever-present, no senses... nothing. A soft thudding, a pulsating push, awakened. Now there was an awareness, a cognizance even, and matter became. Form sculpted. Minute impeccancy——assiduous, scrupulous attention to detail. Molding, creating order and existence. Destruction, too. What is imperfect, needless, incongruous... that which jarred with dissonance. Omitted. I am waiting. Such sweet aching waiting. For perfection. Soft, savory. How I luxuriate in its melody, this perfection. How it washes over me like cotton on my skin (Fiona Apple), like summer breeze cooling my brow, as luscious as ambrosial nectar. When I am done... waiting... The light comes, how sharp, how bitter, how sour... it bites at me and makes me bleed all over. How cold the air is. It howls and rips at my throat. The thickness in my throat. The thudding is screaming now. The rancor of existence, that which is more than simple being but having to be. The slavery to it. The needs and desires that must be fulfilled, not thoughts and softness and sweetness. Complexity barks at my being. The sharp vinegar draught of it. Thus, I am born. |
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« Last modified: January 26, 2002 » |