How It Comes

I come creeping along a corridor covered in green leaves, moss, and long, curvy branches, gently stretching delicate limbs across the foliage, towards a door seductively hidden behind one of the niches. I come unexpectedly, typically at the break of dawn. I come as an inverted scream of the rising sun. 

Come as a reversion of the paroxysm of colors dripping from the freshly cut umbilical cord. Come as a sinister version of the warmth stolen from the shivering muscles. Come as a parody of fullness after a tasty meal. Come as a fulfillment of a prenatal nightmare.

As a farcical form of the courage of a toddler’s initiation into walking. As trickster light, flickering, signaling the inevitability of radical uncertainty.

A smell of the depth of the forest opens the door. Invites me to a misty hall of invisible shadows.

(Smell like space.)

Walking through the labyrinth of the shadows in absentia. Announcing a kickstart of a new day.

(Start like a dying heart.)

I bring to a new morning a quiet sense of inexplicable anxiety. That evolves into a magnified version of its own conception. That invades the hall. Invades the walls.

Conquers the leaves. Conquers the branches.

(Like it should always smell of green.)

I penetrate the objects with a subtlety undecipherable to them. I make holes in their interior. I decorate the inside of the objects.

(Like it should always be negatived.)

Starts like thirst. Continues like hunger. Lingers like a snotty jet from the third birthday chocolate cake. Suspended in an alveolus like an onset of the kindergarten small pox pandemic. Lasts as long as it takes to reanimate the colors of noon. Lurks behind the iris softly poking the retina with a microspear. Redirects it downwards. Through the nose. Throat. Towards the stomach.

Takes as long as it is necessary for a boomerang pang to strike back. Hits the palate. Bounces into the surface of the tongue. And pours out. As an inverted delta scream, generously splashing colors on the surface of the paper on the floor. Underneath the window sill.

Damned be my motherfucking self if I agree that I heard the factory’s story, (H)I Kartina.

Damned you are fucking not. Besides, you are well aware that the stories the factory tells are not exactly heard the way you define the concept hear, innit Purple (H)Ortak…

Like fuck! That’s what I’m talking about.

Curling, matter in traces, painting a thin path along a quivering forearm. Like all the feverish dawns with the face of the parents embrace. Like the pain that smells of memory. Memory like any other fabricated area on the mind’s map. Like history that didn’t die because it never existed.

Like the end of the dream of longing. Like the beginning of uneasiness as the only promise of comfort.