This is where I asked myself, if I knew myself. Along minuscule vicissitudes in tender hearts, I placed the seeds of a catastrophe.
I owed death a life: I became my death.
It’s a fun memory, reminiscence has never been so pleasant, never had the past—the past been so beautiful.
Wait. This is not the apt course; I have to start from where it began. There had to be symmetry. Chronometry. I have to seek origins, and the roots. I have to. I have to find those first, or at least construct those—assemble the assemblage of origins. The genesis of this narrative shall be chronicled in an order. Nostalgia with the benefit of innovation is creativity. So let me think, Oh no, let me recollect, let me go down back in the forgotten lanes. Yes! That is scary, but still so soothing. Yes! Its dark yet so illuminating. In the cul-de-sacs of my conscious amnesia… life before I find the end, and the beginning, I find the origins.
The beginning begins with Sin, like the Original beginning. Moist. Rosy. Creamy. Irresistible... What if the devil was still the angel? Yes, there’d have been no story—no colour. Somewhere, I’d say, the drunken old bitch was right. I hailed him: The devil be damned. An Aeolian harp he played and we danced along, it was such ecstasy, it was so divile. Its such a fruitful doom, for devil to be damned. Apples and taste. Now everything turns to ashes in the mouths. Isn’t it malady? For nothing compares to forbidden fruit you offered and I devoured. I am trapped with the booby Nightmares.
Nudity. I wonder whether divinity needs clothing. But that’d be dreaming in dreams, the extermination of the facts, the truth. Four deserts in the way, dues still to pay, yet there’ll be days, I tell you my dear, there will be days. Days of heavy breaths, bodies enveloped in sweat—in mist. That’s what I ride upon, the panacea of pain. The end of a beginning, and beginning of eternity.
[And I fucked chronology again.]
I am not sure I want to tell the story, I am not sure that I shall be Lazarus. But I have been raised, I have been touched.
Ah! The devil be damned.
Its not my choice, never was, never will be. Lazarus doesn’t have choices.
Abracadabra, lightening and blizzard:
This was supposed to be a song: a catchy tune and melodious rhythm. I am so sorry for this disappointment, converse is the case. This is the shrieking of hounds juxtaposed scrannely with howling of wolves in the moonlit nights, when hunters hunt and moaners moan: Everyone owns a personal Shaam—e—Ghareeban . But it was about the spell. Not howls, not moans. Of abracadabra…
The words didn’t mean a thing. Every one could sing it. There was a secret of which I had known very late and still I remain incapable of exploiting it—I could be messiah otherwise.
Let me shoot it straight, I am bad with suspense: The eleven words of abracadabra sung with the eleven words of nothingness with ten iterations. Twenty two words in total. Ten iterations. I know that seems outrageous. It is so. But singing those eleven words of nothingness takes all the breath your body can gather. Try that, and you’d see, like Lazarus, Messiahs are chosen too.
What happens when the sorcerer… I mean messiah ofcoarse, off-course … anyway what happens when the spell is complete? Bingo, you guessed it right. Thunder rubbles, Lightening strikes. They hang here, they don’t burn them on the chair, and so what knoweth thee of the burning veins? And of thunder? Terrible screams of devils in hell, or of hell? And what will explain to thee what this is? Fire Blazing fiercely!
Sadomized—Me. I needed hell to run ‘into hell and back’. And a thread so thin to pull me from me, to her.
Out of the frying pan into the freezer.
C’mon don’t frown. Yes that is the most appropriate analogy I can juggle. [Pardon my frailties, my lost eloquence was washed away in the downpour of sin, and I don’t even miss it.] The coldness, the pain, the peace; Indescri—bable. From hell into the hands of blizzard. You know what happens when you burn and freeze simultaneously? No, you don’t get brittle.
You Live Again.
Haha. It seems so exhilarating right—reviving from the dead to the undead? It is not. ‘To be born again’ means a newer death. Death, again. New arrears to pay or be held in contempt forever. Forego. And there you sniff, dogs are incorrigible. They’d be loyal, and trade off their loyalty by sniffing your air. Men’d sniff too. Poke their noses in none-of-their-business, waiting to trace a hint of bad air, a vestige of filth. For what? Curiosity? Since I was the dead I know what they kept clandestine: The reality of Avagon, the transfiguring of souls—all men are dogs, all dogs are men. Our race is the despicable farrago of manhood and doghood, no wonder angel scorn us for kicks.
But I am losing the track again. I must, yes, I must relate the relevant. Yes the realevent.
But I guess, I fucked chronology again.
A-soul and Holes:
[Begone and forgotten, the gods of ancient cry out aloud for a little attention]
For the lovers of innumerable taboos, forbidden fruits will ripe out again. The inherent incongruity of paradise will haunt you and me for ages, seven ages my love and thus I’ll write immaculate dreams of illicit passions: imaginations. Heavens mock us if that closeness be. Regret drinks from our blood if that closeness be. Isn’t it mocking the inability to be close? The rays will fall again and melt us away. No matter what the want wants from two souls, the fear of dissolution will dissolve us away—anyway.
Lets master the art of letting go everything—everything but an us, a-soul, my soul. Let the two be Donned, into the two arms of a single soul.
[But that was the monologue my dear. Erase it if you may, for the story continues from HERE. I seem to be carried away in my soliloquy, and let that be a lone voyage, because it was one always. ]
The next significant honorable mention shall be the holes. Black-holes. True blackholes the suckers of energy, the seekers of light. It’s a great calamity to have one in you, believe me the void generating voids, the holes digging holes can be a pain. Lazarus died with the hole. And the messiah came and touched it then. An insertion, the act of completing—the kiss of life. Calmity is even a greater calamity and I induced one, received one.
You know what is the greatest pain of being complete? Submerging into each other? You can’t get enough, you can’t let go and the scissors in the hands of Sol will cut your fiery wings again, a flight too high will be blasphemous you see, and then the sense of incompleteness will prevail. Rebirth is a disease with symptoms of fear—of death, of voids, of incompletion. Rebirth is rapacious, the hunger to be born again, again yet not die is cruel. Can we be born again, if we never die? Miracles need no explanations messiah. All is plausible with the touch, with the sin.
The unfilled holes are excruciating, they stink with the moist air and seep puss; they are loathsome. What of filled holes, one of which I conceal under the hideous scars? What of the absence of pain inducing pain? The looming fear within ecstasy, the violent mutiny of being against what it loves, originating from a jaded inside, devoid of all colours it once absorbed. The fear lies there, lurks and lingers. And yet it resuscitates the dead—the desire, beseeches the unfilled holes to be filled.
And then the rebirth finally shapes up, takes its form, the inevitability to take forms clasps desire and shakes it through.
I become A soul without holes. Dependable, weak and shuddering for the touch, again, again. Forever. Forever.
But that’s too fast; I haven’t yet told you the story of death. What will you understand of rebirth if you won’t know/told of death? I am fucking chronology again.
Forest of fabrication and Pyramids of promise:
I was lost, lost was I. I have been in this hiatus since long, long enough to lose my sense of time. The interim between death and the after life, only few would know that it is the wait of ages. Dumped in a forest of fabrications, you see yourself infront of you without a mirror, disintegrating slowing until you face becomes mush and you become another fragment in the forest. It sounds horrific, it sounds frightening but believe me so you don’t feel a thing—dead don’t feel a thing. And there you came, I looked at you and you held my hand. It was you who sang a song and promised me pyramids of promise. You promised me it’d last longer than this intermission, longer than life, longer than eternity.
I took you hand, I had to take you hand. You crept under and over the pulp of my existence and swayed, asked me to sway along. I remember the song, love, I remember the tunes, and the stories you told. You said you’d be behind me, and I trusted you. I trusted you—never looked back. Orpheus never looked back and Eurydice sung him songs. You did that, your methodology rewrote mythology and I gave in as you caved in.
You brought me here at the foundation of this grandeur—this pyramid of promises and poemised immortality. What of the tremors in this remunerated febrile body that still shakes in disbelief—the slaves be buried as pharos.
[You said] ‘Tell me what scareth thee? ’
[I said] ‘Memories’
‘Tell me what shaketh thee?’
‘The fallacy of dreams ’
‘What mocketh thee? ’
‘What deceiveth thee?’
You touched and made the tremor disappear.
‘Till when’ I said
You said ‘Forever’ and made my necromimesis gone.
[Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity]
The mountain where I sojourned for centuries was written in moments. I flew to the top, on wings of thirst: the unbearable thirst of the ancient vampires. With exaltation of immortality, the pride of strength, I built myself a castle there in less then seven days, and murdered the sheep, castrated their self righteous shepherd. To demonstrate [much to myself, than anyone] the impossibility of reversal, I made there a huge fire, and burnt the bodies, and sprinkled the ashes in the in the arid air. The temple had its first immolation. I planned to live forever in the castle, never to die, never to feel dying. I buried my head in the infinite lap of the solitude and started the worship. It wasn’t easy you see it’s never easy, to choose one side, abandon other dimensions, whatever you choose to abandon, whatever you choose to cherish… One way or the other, the agen bit of inwit, clutches even the most blackened of hearts. Then finally when I thought the rituals were complete, the salvation accomplished, death came incognito to crumble the whole fabrication of salvation. I remember the stern face, the solemn imploring request for the shelter of one thousand and one nights. With eternity on hand, such little was the time, and the craving for a momentary cohort was irresistible. I offered her in, to share the taste of eternity with me... The mountain stood, so did the temple, yet Eternity crumbled. The same treasured lap of solitude became stench with the unholy blood, called itself loneliness. Incarcerated in the chains of self conscious choices, I embraced death, held her close and made love to her. She imparted me with the Red blackened with acrimony, and played with my toes, made them ashen.
I cant tell till when we lay together, I cant tell when I realized that I had died, but I did sometime, in one of those perpetual nights and she forsake me craving with desire of deathlove. And then the earth shattered below my lovebed, the mountain fragmented to petite figments of imagination and thus began TheFall.