071211: void, cold, sea, wood
(stimulus words by Jamie Strachan)
A small girl came up to me, and said,
“I’ve been searching for the edge of the world”.
But all she found was a fire that started behind her eyes,
and engulfed her belly.
A fire we thought long dead.
The kindling was merely crackling, a few miserly moments from stolen twigs. Winding up one way, and plummeting down another. It was not visible, yet the flame existed, and continued existing. With a flurried breath, a few elements caught alight, and things burned brightly. Those around it were comforted by its warmth, unquestioning.
In a dark, airless space, nothing is there.
The roar is lulling, the licking flumes of yellow and orange, mesmerising. The heat boils the skin, and roasts the eyes. The space between flame, is carbon, air absorbed by small black molecules that billow down oesophagi, plunge into sponge-like lungs. Innards are filling with smears of ash, and streaky outer casings are frying crisp. The perimetre is about to disintegrate, the thing separating you from the rest of the world. You realise your identity, your weak-wristed profferings, your reflexive dialectics, your name, your voice, your reputation, your self, you realise the farce you upheld all your life, is being rendered irrelevant with the destruction and disappearance of your skin. Your freezing synapses will soon dissipate amidst this glorious landscape, and dissolve into a sea of acid.
In the dark, airless space, there you are.
And the relief of bodylessness, egolessness, non-gravity, voicelessness, no connection, no burden, no consequence, is infinite.