These thoughts and memories turn me inwards on myself, as if I can see myself from the outside, from above, hunched over magazines, my face contorted, not a dancer, not singing on wirelines of air energy, but turned into a centrifuge, a spiral black hole for pulling light into matter and matter into dead, cold space - a force for entropy, caught in the endless washing machine of generations of family and secrecy, denial and betrayal and unconsciousness, a character in a long nightmare of silent, dusty rooms and closed hearts - lift me up, save me from the murderer who looks through my eyes.
All my stories would come to an end, and I would forget how to make sense, except that if I breathe I become a channel for an energy that always knows what to say and how to move - I'll kiss a real girl, in a real bedroom, in the brightness of the clear nighttime, and when I'm alone I'll become a clear space, an empty brain in the universe, a window deep underwater, glass for an endless blue, a promise of blackness and eternity, needing nothing. So different, hir voice, the lord my god, the true self I fell in love with, hir beautiful laughing eyes and the power of the voice SHe gives me when I can no longer bear to be myself or live as my own dark mind, my own body of aching hunger. SHe frees me from everything I thought I might ever need and flies through my hand as if I am owned by "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower" - SHe is always already the saviour of my reasons, and hir ecstasy is the forgetting of myself, my narratives, my darkness and brightness, hold me forever like this and be my voice, if you speak not through me then I have no tongue and no fingers, no eyes and no heart, I am always burning in the whiteness of your sun or I am ash and rock, the space around me is so voidly infinite but I feel it, I feel the walls outside myself - I know you are my voice, I know it, and only in my despair, only when all my reasons are at rest in your arms.
I am my own limit and I do not reach beyond myself. I am the clenching of a fist. But SHe opens the hand. I open the hand, SHe, I, the hand is opened. The hand is opened, but only when the fist is so tired of war that it can't strike anymore, not even be held up to the sky as a denial, a salute, not even rigid in death - the hand is opened, somehow. I don't know what happens, I don't even know where the words are coming from, why I am writing what I'm writing, how it becomes different when I let go the strands of my story - I have no story, just a million images, a tangle of threads, and the stories weave through me and bind me, they bind the images to me and to each other - but let the strands go and we are free, my past and my future, and me.
I'm forgiven. I wasn't swallowed by the darkness. The numbers vanished into the black hole but I wasn't swallowed, I didn't die, I just lay down in your arms of ecstasy and babbled and cried, I never know where I go, I swear I don't even know where these words are coming from, I don't know why it's different but a river drives through my brain, I am a ripple, rushing, a wave in a clear medium, clear light bedroom, clear light cafe, I'm whole, I'm integral, I only know my path when the path walks me, when I don't even know where to go or what to do any more - I don't know anything, and yet the words flow and the page is written, the dancer is awake in the nighttime and the body is made beautiful by the madness of the mind.