I can’t write today. I couldn’t possibly. I’ve nothing to say.
Still; there’s a meadow and it’s covered in fog up to my knees.
Meandering through it, hands just on the surface of the mist, I can feel the sharpness sting my palms.
Wincing at the unpleasant sensation I bring them to my face to see tiny droplets of blood run from the open wound, into the mist below.
The fog is no longer docile and begins to whirl around my legs; a veritable tempest about my knees and legs, beating me.
The pain isn’t entirely unpleasant. More like the dancing of memories of a thousand days gone by; it is intense and it demands attention.
Looking down I see the swirling gale is no longer a mist; though it still resembles one so fast is it moving.
My blood combines with the milieu and I wonder what of my flesh is left; if anything.
The fight or flight comes now and somehow I’m apart from this as well, just an observer of the physical response to the danger presented by recollection.
The mist is coalescing now, mixing with the blood to form a thick blackness that is as solid as stone and immediately recognizable; at least to me.
Next is the call. A clarion demanding my attention and I fall to my knees. Up to my neck in the familiar blackness; though it whips around me so fast I can no longer clearly see it.
Wrapping around me, I can feel it, so familiar, so painful and yet so comforting. It’s enigma is that it is a contradiction and it’s contradiction is that it is an enigma.
Burrowing into my skin at the base of my spine I am jolted to my feet as it writhes and wriggles its way inside demanding entry so that it may escape.
I willingly take it in; knowing what comes next and welcoming it.
Arms outstretched, hands balled into fists I open my mouth and it escapes.
Black bile erupts; travelling from all around me, through me and out again.
So violent is this experience that I don’t at first see the sludge for what it is and what shape it takes until;
Standing before me is the most perfect example of human emotion incarnate
The black mixture of mist and blood takes form around her; for it is now clearly a “her” and I can see the descriptive words of every experience I’ve ever had; every memory I never wanted and every feeling I ever did.
Her mummified beauty excites, and spurns me as she raises a finger, dripping with ink, motioning me to come hither.
I can’t write today, I say.
I couldn’t possibly. I’ve nothing to say.