Soft Apocalypse

A spark of life. Electrifying. Scintillating in the sense of static integration. Down to the molecular, where lightning grounds itself, and it’s many-fingers of a hyperactive god plant themselves in whatever and whichever could be found, brittle, horrid sensation, an inner-pulsing, and yet, so endlessly smooth as the entirety of the body is magnified and supercharged; where the limited factors of the skin and body, mind and heart, driven by soft-self-electrodes of the biotic self ruminate and cook in the hazy sense of perception and their own existential realizations; and yet, the smaller parts fail to be the whole of the whole; while there is life, this life is not proof of beyond the chemical; the inherent.
So the mind is blank, and it runs numb, curled by lightning and terror to its core. And as far as proof of perception goes; at the end of the world, divided by darkened edges that lead to space, and cut stairs into the night skies like the distant dreaming heart; so the wanderlust takes hold, but it wanders, steps into the hauntingly familiar; and at once, the collection of an entire life is held, witnessed, stepped and resolved, where distant gods and relatives can dine with a smooth end; as the world’s memories of those gods and distant relatives can die with the thoughts of another; and the world, as it’s baked into a soft, small faceting hole, a single-screw in a great and incomprehensible body, run only by its division; of what isn’t know, what can’t be known, and old desires have a chance to bleed in, before the great steeping blackness turns the mind to cold and murky tea, and is truly, and finally discarded, not as known throughout the post-void of the birth, but then, in those precious places still, before the world was bright and new, and cold and so wordlessly, breathlessly terrifying that some awaken with not a breath in their lungs, just to eventually step haplessly into a darkened place in the ground.
It’s so easy to talk about like this; dripping the words down into the page; they felt like they needed to be here. There is a purpose; and that purpose drives the lashes of hunger, and yet, from winter to wolves; there is ferocity, the same found in knifebite, there is the push, the anger, the draw through turgid places; built upon like the sacraments to a forgotten dream;
It’s so easy to talk about this because I can still taste the silvery-airs of forgotten body; I can feel the split and division, a little hole that was made there that day, when I had first died, beyond the human sense, and beyond the drawing of those senses that the humanity I had could afford me; it was an uncertainty driven by the certain finality of the grave, and yet, here I stand, with my mournful heart, feeling my organs pulse, feeling my familiar pains bound to my flesh, and feeling blitzing sensation as lightning arcs, now, even through my spine, up delicate and finely organically grown and woven patterns and textures that force me to breathe, force me to smile, force me to suffer and scream all of these things.
It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be possible by means that I could know with my tiny little human brain; but I’ve tasted a grand abyss, certain undoing, a ripping at my body.
I saw the soft-silver light, and I felt myself being completely and utterly annihilated, felt every strand of my body being pulled apart, and now, I taste wakefulness again, in some way, some horrible form, I feel a distant golden light behind my eyes, if there are no better words to put into action how I feel; like a distant treasure, of soft and unforgotten memories that jingle and collapse into each other, a spray of distant and molten gold, and in their cooling arcs, all of these things, as they scream back towards the ground, still, as errant little drops of my being, form something precious that I could only gather by burning my flesh, and tasting that sweet destruction again.

I’ve felt it as a secret set of places; and in this sweet anhilia, (this small fragment of my destruction) where dreams weave in and out of the conscious mind and form the soft weeping face of familiar figures and old emotions that I struggle to reclaim, to take back into me, to take into myself and find enlightenment there in the broken pieces of a mirror-image of myself of which I could stare back into with a deft certainty of the curves and wrinkles, and the color of my eyes, the fat beneath my chin, and the flow or the stiffness of my hair, and the filth of every-day life to drive every last bit of that together, reminder of the spray and the dirt and dust that gathers on thy fingers and stains your skin.
These pieces lay shattered, there, now, distant, but in the cry of the body and mind, as they so desperately return to places that can only be visited in another state of being, in a different place of mind, where the body and the chemical and physical certainties; where the diameter of your bones and the smooth cut of perfected molecules set up the vast and exact structures of your body. These places lay as a distant dream, and they are preserved here, and when I died, not as a man, or a child, not as a death to be understood by the prophets and their tongues or in the sleek blackness even of distant sleep, I could still feel these things that had died with me, and to visit these distant places would take to me a sense of grieving, that even as I had died, these places and parts of me, beyond the dinner-table of the grave, and the gathering show to promise me into inky blackness, they shone on beyond and behind my black and blank eyes, and in my death, between them, I felt the stars, and I felt my spirit peel and drive back. But I still breathe. I tell this to you as much as I fail to understand the possible broken-bits of the engines of my flesh as my mind is unshackled.
All around me is the gray world; when I had died, so had color, so had it’s familiarity, and those places that hid in the dark lurking beneath their grave-soil cried for me, as their graveside companion, one with the cosmic decay, had been pulled free; there was not comfort in this dead place, there was not despair or distress, echoes of the past, dead places where dead selves lay, and they might, as does the so-”damn-wise” future self, and the distant-well wishings, the remarks and the changes and erasures that came with the desires of the past, for an absolute destruction of the self-now who could make these changes do struggle with the idea;
But they lay in death.
To put it in all certainty, I tell you this because it doesn’t matter if you understand, or if you drag and tear at your soul to make it alright; grief of now, and these mistakes of the past will wash away like an old storm, but these divets in the dirt, left behind, will forever erode the surface and cut loose, down to distant depths; where worms breed in the wet soil and will always appear on the rainy days. It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand that, when I say that I died, I only died in-so far as those old distant selves did, but so many are so CERTAIN that they still remain within you.
So this is it, then, this is why the dreaming happens. If you understand the rainy-days, and you understand the bubbling surface of a distant sea; and all past and all future is the face of the currents of which pull you under and cut your skin, and make you scream and cry and beg to be reborn by your own set of rules, then you can understand this state as it is now. As you are now, because you have died, and it has taken to so many-pieces and places of yourself, so there is that mirror, and there are the scars that will never heal, and just as an amputated limb might linger in memory, and reflex, bubble, and you can feel the outline of a distant life and a world, a part of sensory truth taken and replaced; so is this the case of the mind, and the body, and everything that surrounds us.

Smooth winter wind curled and bit at the air. Within the currents of itself, as its own frost-touch curled like knifebite true, and ripped and eroded at the flesh, and kept a reminder of fleeting warmth, what was dead, what is dead, and what could be, blended all-too closely together.
The CAR’s heating unit purred softly, in the very-carrish way of distant, warmth of winds, the burning of the engine as it exhaled the very warmth of it’s eternally running and screaming, dying being, held-formed and forced as warmth and motion within it’s slick and snow-touched shell. There, then, is the distant-moon held as a soft-death and transfiguration, a focusing-hole in the sky that swirls the seas and brings the call of the occult and promises of change and chance with it’s distant, and always-winking eye, promising to stare and follow, as it would always track just behind, waiting, soft, a perfect egg of change; holding a promise underneath it’s shell.
The soft scream of rubber on hard, dead poured-concrete, as it’s’ microscopic and great crushing pressure would tear and crack the skin of twisting-garden side snakes that would seek to match their brothers and sisters of the distant-rivers in their complexity and desire to hungrily devour the world, faintly into twisting lines that struck and took-no shape from what seemed logical. Boats to cars. It didn’t matter, natural or not. Flat-laid and flatlining heed to the wills of nature, chaos, and the ways of man. I can’t speak for what I was, at that point, what was coming.
The winter always breathed down and promised to consume the world in a genteel apocrypha, promising to always melt away, distant, and soft, and promising of itself, in all-sure certainty as the snow always could, and would whip and breathe, these twisting and promised forms of nature that would always shift to their own chaos; to exist within itself a high squabble on terms of its own acceptance and surrender, often without boundaries between the two. To consume itself.
The world around was bathed, then, in this coldness that could, that would fade away, eventually, but it knew, as it had always, that it would return, and in a small, cosmic style of way, everything would change under her breath. Her sorrow. Distant fields, patterned in a flurry, underneath, the silvering- many blinking eyes of a multitude of a million of deferred patterns that shone and made their best and differing shapes in such a terrible splattering of chaos that it couldn’t ever be made to its beauty.
I had left the car by that point, and I remember, the solitude, as the winter ate away at my exposed face.
I remember the jacket, my small shell of warmth, and I remember, the snow, as it blanketed the world, came to touch the air, with such awful intensity that it came to blanket my sight, too, over a countless haloed fall of distant clashing dunes of true and wild difference; and I remembered the scene that cut it, now, and smoothed off the roughage of my soul, the shining faces of every-possibility of the body and spirit that makes me return here.
I saw it staring. And I felt as though every-part of me was wrong.
There was no proper term. As there is nothing truly for the spaces between death that fill the mind. As the certainty of existence that I had held up to this point came miserably crashing down around me, it felt like the entirety of my life; everything to my standards of right and wrong were but little spaces to this thing; all of my certainties, and my fears, just to bleed away in an instant. I felt the entire mass of my life, the countless years, then, of which that very instant, I came to discard with a sense of disdain, as this existence I had lived came to be but the soft and warm, unpromise of a place unremembered; the world itself unto that almost of a promise of a new birth; where it was.
I couldn’t handle it then, and by all means, if I were to witness it again, of which, even it’s shadow, which was, admittedly faint in the drowning light, when the snow, against the backdrop of the moon, and the scraping arms of trees just beyond; though, now, even space and time of the waking world means so little to me, even if it could be called a shadow, shone so much brighter, but with so much more uncertainty, it’s own existence to a certain anxious tone, a spray of stormy darkness which had set all things and all-questions alight to my distant happy days, and I could not make it out. I could not understand. I know that, even now, when I have seen things; insofar as I think I could say that I’ve seen anything at all; I could only remark that there was a god upon the earth, and this place; because so, now, even planet means to little to this body I cling to, the moon my distant warning, and I felt something inside of me snap, rubber-band back and forward through the times and spaces that I had used to occupy.
I can’t say if it ever happened; during the state of my death, of which I had awoken, if I was taken to a place of medical knowledge; where sterility might ever wipe away something quite as beautiful, or if it had ever happened in the first place; but I had awoken, and a piece of me was snapped off; the polished face of crystal, under the roughage stone, of water to melt and fry away rougher pieces; but in such, cut is only to an angle, and thusly, the world which I occupy - again, as a “world” now only holds as much stuff as all of uncertainty itself; for I had tasted certainty, in a place, which couldn’t be holy; without comparison, and I had seen the face of a god. May these dreams walk me to places of truth; where there is comfort, where there is death; for there is; in my mind, a hole, a small death, in this place, where distant selves which had split and died, rejoice in their solemn natures; both to the side of animalistic pleasure and revelry, and in the soft, blanketing winter white of snow. The division may be clear to you, and in writing this, maybe, just a touch of clarity, this sanity I had tasted so many years behind me now, could shine through and tell me the cut of a forest, from it’s reflection in a lake, but I am here, in this place with my death, and it still clings to me, in these hours, where I soon drift back to places away. Winter; summer; fall; and spring; as such, they hold meaning to themselves, as whispered sacred words; and they all mean too much, and all too little from their many faces, of places and sets of distant deaths that pull the score of certainty for these little pieces of our worlds. But there are gods, and dreams, and the moon to tell us of the change;
If only we could ever be ready; to speak of grieving, and yet, to forget yourself, too.