While I’m carried by some invisible force the last part of the journey I try to think about what I was doing before I woke up but I can’t remember what it is was. I can’t remember where I was going or where I came from. I’ve been reborn ignorant of my purpose. I can barely feel my body but there is wind at my back. I wish I was lying in the dust, fixed into that purple sky. A place full of stars and circling lights, a sun that never seems to set, but is always hidden behind some dark silhouette.
Twelve-thousand and twenty-two... and the freezing winds are gone. I’m stagnant in the cave, my vision not registering, a violent sweat and wretch, then blackness. And I’m never going to wake up again.
In another lifetime I did wake up though. I found myself cradled to a wall, eyes uncertain and timid. Vulnerable in the reflections of a cracked murky puddle, I could just barely turn to rest against the wall. Sliding down its grimy surface, a burden of my own body I gave into the view of an orbiting light, the same as before and for now my only memory of anything at all.
Positioned as I was, I noticed something in the shade of the unnatural lighting. What appeared to be fungus covered the floor and invaded almost half of the entrances eternal shadows. Parched and afraid of the water the fungus seemed an impassable option. In slow motion, an unfocused parcel crossing a channel of space, I found myself with it in hand.
I can safely sit in the shadows of the cave’s mouth and embrace that swollen brown sun; there is no direct light, merely a hint and a tinge of its youthful past. It only offers an unpleasant glow that makes stomach acid rise into my throat. It is for these reasons that I try to avoid it at all costs. I feel displaced; a voyeur, watching myself struggle in vain from somewhere far away. There’s something all together unwholesome about where I now find myself. In the wake of logic I find myself a shivering beacon of self-abuse. I’m scared and broken, there is no path laid out before me and I have little to reassure myself that anything will ever be right or normal again.
I’ve been here for less than two weeks from what I can recall. Fungal spores have been my nourishment. Since arriving some time ago, I have settled into this place I find myself. In a coma, broken by the euphoria of a full stomach, the dust in the not-quite-still air holds a motion and grace of something that gnaws my memories but cannot be placed (Constellations). I feel a quiet rage overcoming me and I find myself again succumbing to a vile influx of acid. Straining and sore I find myself outside, bent over in the sunlight that never seems to rest. Combating my demise I crawled back to the forest of darkness and solitude. Nearly delirious, I feel the fungus spreading its’ roots in the core of my system. A host of healing properties I would never have considered or hoped for. I feel stronger every day I rest here.
More and more a singularity is forming inside me. I can feel a pulse and see the sparkle of recollection. In a place that seems removed from the very fabrics, I see a farm that breathes and flows. It is a blur which focuses itself and dims again. I can remember nothing more, that has been over a course of, what I can fathom, nearly a week. It’s impossible to tell.
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