I am writing, typing, trying to recall a sensation, an idea, a meaning to grasp within the chaos, barely thinking, moving forward through the thick swirling matter that it is in my mind. Stuck. Right there, in the small distance between realization and fading dream, like a flash in the night right before a thunder wave comes.
Only it doesn’t.
That spark, that flash flies deep into the night without a memory, without a sound.
Trembling, I’m sitting with my laptop, writing, typing frantically. Trying to put into words those realizations that came to me. trying to put into language those thoughts without subject, those feeling without cause.
And, like smoke drifting upwards from Little Shiva who’s medicine had provided, my hands move in vain, the more I grasp the more the fractal trails cascade in on themselves and become more complex to equilibrium. The spiritual revelation now fell without sound, like a feather in space.
Who could recall those sacred thoughts, those sacred feeling that oh not so long ago, but fleeting seconds held such significant meaning and now were as empty as the silent dark that followed. Who could recall?
Fleeting, the thoughts that follow. To describe each would be a poem in itself, disgrace, outrage, frustration, hope! Perhaps Little Shiva would provide a solution again?
Coughing, I hold up Little Shiva, the sacred vessel blessed with three breaths, and spark Prometheus’ gift. The minutes that tick by are uneventful in the slightest. The bineural beat of the room- monotonous fading memories. The second lightning absent with the first thunder.
Alas, what the Light provided the Light will take. But the Light will provide what is needed another day.
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