Shallow waters, muted lights, moral perdition, discordant music, translucent fabric – concrete and abstract ideas fly past my conscious stream – a riptide of colours, a whirlpool of sensations. My feet gently brush against the asphalt as a steady downpour cascaded around me, bemused. The dull glow of the streetlamps reflecting a distorted afterimage of the world above. A car sped past me, its bright headlights shooting across the rough outline of the road, painting needles of rain with golden streaks – straw into gold, flesh into gold. A spindle spun, a name unknown. A hand of life, a hand of death. I continued walking.
The chorus of overtones and undertones cried out in complex harmony. A metronome of shadows oscillated with respect to the ebb and flow of melodies. The warmth of my hand is but a dull echo of the souls of carbon in my lungs, a mere fraction of passion once shared with bodies intertwined in copula many moons ago. Between twisted sheets and cries of exaltation was the leap into the void, the great loss of self, the tiger in space, a plea for annihilation.
Twin spires rose above the ground, a path forged forward over where ground was none. I noticed the scent of brine and the shimmer of reflected moonlight. Steady crafts floated over a blanket of black, an undulating velvet. Another metal cocoon zipped past, then another, and another – a parade of chrome leaving exhausts of grey. In between the smoky wisps, one could make out figure athwart my path, a ghostly visage near metal rails. The silver crescent shone through its immaterial form. A body freed, l’appel du vide. The fall of Narcissus. A nether gaze, a crescent reflected, down the depths of that murky velvet.
A string of chords sang its lamentation into my ear. Poco a poco. Ritardando. Familiar notes took me back to a time when naivete was the scaffold from which I built my youth on and impulsivity the backdrop of halcyon days gone past – to call it nostalgia is to call the tempest a breeze; to call it folly is to call the inferno a flame; to express longing over times forgotten to is to reach out to heaven during a steady descent to hell. Abandon hope ye who enter here.
Familiar patterns of light finally came into view – two specks of white between three speckles of yellow. The unrelenting downpour transforming static luster into showers of silver and gold. My hand reached out for the metal apparatus concealed in places where the light didn’t touch. A shriek broke through the silence of the night and a nest of passerines protested in response. My feet advanced on the gravel path and towards the door to my abode. A trail of sweets, the promise of shelter.
Everything was still once more as I returned to grace. This landscape was a land frozen in time, and I struggle in the samsara in vain hope to find a gap in the endless knot. Sentience is the cradle of all souls, and yet to be sentient is to never experience the world objectively. However, at this moment in time, with the ghost of my thoughts giving way to exhaustion, I lie in the comfort of knowing that I rest under a blanket of stars.