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Updated: May 25, 2023

The boy pondered whether it was possible for two opposing things to be true at once.

In his state of decay, he was somehow receiving a flow of fresh information.

Possessed by creative pulsions that woke him before dawn, only to destroy him at night.

He had a blind trust that his fate would be good in the end,

That the wounds would heal, allowing him in turn to heal others.

This sense of security was shook by the sound of the ticking clock in his moldering body.

The mold was potent, as if his organs' compost produced raw juices flowing up to his brain.

Flashes of transcendent colors and awe in-between dreams.

Still the worms in there were getting excited because they knew he might die soon.

He tried to prove them wrong through a final thrust of vitality,

But instead of a primal yelp came out a sustained whimper.

A moan that meant "All that can save you now is not a sudden leap of courage,

But a long and steady and patient confrontation with doing nothing."

This was unlikely to happen, as he had built a massive shrine to overstimulation.

Worshipping the emotional trance that arose when he dishonored his body.

He'd let himself become the submissive partner of a Force that did not care about human sanity, but only wanted to bring new things into the world.

This thing wanted to speak through him, but could not when he was whole.

It had to find the cracks in him, expand them until he was truly porous.

It wanted him to forget his name and to expose his raw belly,

It would turn his insides into artistic jungles,

And throw his drained body out in the gutter like an empty beer can

His cells lovingly re-swallowed by sea of all things.

And yet... as a still sentient being, he composed a silent question.

The answer came in the form of a spiral,

Torn at the edges, tender at the center.

Made of a nectar like honey emanating from the great mother's nipple,

Red and sore from all the excessive feeding he had done throughout his trances.

Now he just wasn't sure whether the light spiralled in or out...

Of course it did both,

Like tentacles ripping from his heart,

Like golden threads gliding through his spine,

A retrieval of life-force, graced.

Thousand-fold response to his confused offerings.

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