genuine. i would be content knowing it was authentic. but things from the past – they crawl in the night when consciousness stumbles around in slumber. these things invade and infect, devouring what is still good: the pure, that which is still just alive, the beautiful and the virtuous – the true.
my history – unwholesome and swollen with death and doubt, mistrust and bitter to the taste. and he just smiles, pure as an icy mountain stream, the sky in it – blue and endless. gives all. takes all – demanding nothing, greatful infinitely and for a moment beyond consciousness. it almost is beyond existance – only theoretical, in the imagination of the skin, when i touch him, he touches me.
its entirety is unbearbale, like looking at the sun, like loving through pain, fear and incredulity, like wanting to fly well aware it is a daydream – yet jumping off the cliff nonetheless, to death. just to know the illusion of flight for a moment, holding hands with Bertha. crashing, rid of regret, light with joy and relief for having awoken the fugitive hero.
not all of the creatures in the bestiary are evil monsters, a ravenous pack, wicked, volatile or lethal. some are blissful furies raging joyously. in their delirious dance and chant they claw, scratch and deafen. my lips cracked and crusted from the savage singalongs. a vicious wail clotted in the throat…
the instinctive, torturous contortions of limbs into raw shapes – first and only, it is just a current of feeling, swelling and overwhelming all thought, all that is human and all that is escape, swallowing flesh and bone back into the beginning.
perhaps the beginning is the touch, this is genuine, without precedent or predecessors – no forethought and suspicion, no ›before‹ – alone with everyone and everything.