unitlted

This is a nonsense feeling. Like dripping molten rubber, absolutely stale in smell but rich in texture. That meal so delicious in festering bacteria only eskimos dare call it a delicacy. That richness like solidity, like salt and fleshy membrane. And ounces of it, too. Drippling a stream of unsettling goo. Oozy eggwax, it founds a pool in my mind's sewer drains and gathers up into a growth. And settles longer, still, growing roots. Reaching further out into parts of me even I don't dare explore. And there it truly feasts, and buries its feet so deep in me I can't hope to pull it out less I remove every chunk of my insides with it.

And so I do, bit by bit I chewed and grit against it with my canine teeth until I'm scraped hollow. And when that day comes that I've licked every reachable corner clean, I shall await the boiling. And I hope to sizzle well, to not give way to easy thinking nor needful clinging but to boil with perfect meaning and finally be the seeing. Finally see the being.

This is what my mind finds in that nonsense It's entangling, unsettling and far too enchanting too ignore. It's gentle darkness is so unspoken that everything within me calls out in utterance. I am alive only because something like death exists. I have projections only because it presents its lovely canvas for me. Only in darkness can light exist. Only in silence can we find noise. Only through hollowness do we know fullness.

Every single thought, no matter how pure and beautiful, is an act of rebellion against death and God.