Be(b)Ra

I wrote a story. In it I saw a tall building. It was standing on its side. Directing the spear on its top westward. To the west a river flew. The river was known for being a cradle of an outburst of colors on late summer afternoons. When people like to imagine themselves to be going back home from a beach, while, instead, they find themselves on the crammed train dashing through the underground empire of the sticky city. The city on such days is an epitome of the invisible dribbling substance that can only be felt in the form of the avalanches of sweat pouring down the chest of the working class, going back home from an exhausting day in an office. The invisible substance embodied in the streams of sweat is the cohesive tissue of the city that without it would fall apart just like the building seemed to be falling.

In the story I wrote, I, having seen the building whose position was unheard of, closed my eyes only to open them to the kaleidoscopic stare, colder than the coldest of Arctic nights, fiercer than the fierest of blazing suns—fixated on my pupil with a pierceness sterner than the sharpest of surgical scalpels. In an attempt to avoid the penetrating x-ray-like force, I looked down, hoping to find consolation in the immobility of the floor. What met my eye resembled post-cataclysmic debris of transhuman offspring of cross-cyborgian culture. I saw pieces of what a mind would like to call a jigsaw puzzle for want of having a prospect for collecting the pieces to put them together. But the site resisted such imagery. No puzzle piece could possibly be imagined to give meaning to that broken structure that threatened to devour my feet should a single nano-move have been made in its disarrayed structure and its chaotic harmony ruined.

I saw a scene after such a disastrous possibility. The scene-after saw me being eaten in my entirety by the monstrosity of the collapsed order. In order to avoid such a catastrophic scenario, I looked back—up! Like I learned something from ye stare or something. I saw the grey pieces of the surrounding turning red & green. I felt my eyes are turning watery. Turning into a waterfall—the wellspring of the river that flows westwards from the funny building. I saw in the waterfall rivers of people diving into the streams awashing their chests. I looked upward. I heard the voice the crystalline imagination has at wee hours. The voice was playing with the bark of the tree around which it was sliding. Upward!

So did I look. And was hit by the sharp ray of light that I thought was coming from a laser. I was blinded for an instant. When I opened my eyes, I saw a world inside an udder. I was swimming through the streams of milk. Like I was being tested for a launch into an interorbital journey or something. I had no muscles. I had no weight. I only had movements. And I had the eyes that saw the undermilk world. Until I really opened my eyes, only to realize that milk-swimming was a moment of total blindness caused by the  light raid. Coming from the source unknown to me. Unknown to you.

In the backlight, I saw the contours of two strange creatures, a tiny space outlined on the background canvas a.k.a. ye sky. What I saw I tried to understand by imagining that what I saw was a description somebody else provided for me to make it easier to comprehend the reality of the situation. The description is of the approximately following content:

One creature has a tiny head whose front ends in a beaky formation. Its feather-covered body stands on two short legs fixated to the branch with its delicate claws. It’s short-breathed and its eyes are lashless. It is looking towards the source of light. The other creature shares the looks of the other.

I was like WOW! Then the tiny creature turned its small head toward me. Looked at me for minutes on end. And I saw the deltaed eye: the ocean of the springs, the sea of the brooks, the lake of the pools. And I jumped into that eye. Falling forever through the soft, cushioned tube. Like I was being weightless or something. Like I never fell before.

And I felt the crown of my head bumping a flexible membrane. And I felt the membrane dissolve into the skin of my face. Became my face. Or, has always been. And  I was looking at the inside of a house. The room. Saw two kids sitting on the floor. Heard a mighty sound coming from the stereo. Like somebody was playing the piano or something.

Hey bebRA! Wassup Purple H(o)rtak! (hi fives are being exchanged.)

Howsyabeen H(i) kARtina! Yo, Bebra!

Once I heard a good story. In it The Kids are kings of the carpet on which maps of their minds are being drawn. They are drawing them. They reside in confined spaces. It is their world. So is the world outside. Where occasionally a tree is what it is. And it is now and then showered with the outpour of light coming from the source unknown to it. In the world, they draw their maps, birds are standing on tree branches for days on end. They accumulate the warmth of the light. For who-knows-what-seasons-of-the heart. They stare at the horizon. Their hypnotic stare fills the space around them with the quiet unimaginable to a mind unaccustomed to the eerie dynamics of serenity. During their uneventful staring sessions, they sometimes look at each other. When they do, they see in each other’s eyes the delta of the sea primordial. Each look tells a story of the world that is being pushed to the margins of history. Like dying cities. The world that once was the whole world. Then started to shrink. And kept shrinking, feeling increasingly alienated from the world itself. Until, one day, it found itself being a minute island in the ocean of unfamiliar currents. Incompatible sounds. Unnatural pace. Counterintuitive temperature. The world out of joints. The world potentially lost in the sweepingly robust ocean of unlikely valences. The world that realizes that there are other such islands equally enstranged. Equally unlikenable to the world without. The worlds simultaneously recognize a way of preserving their unsound existence in the dodginess of the margins. The centrality of the margins. The closeness of long-distance signals. The comfort of their elusiveness. The underlying beat of their instability.