the Child stolen |
Considering how the
stones came into my dreams when I was stricken with the fever.
When it could not have been any disease. And it rose and fell like the waves on the oceans envisioned. But it gave no light, not until now; that I have gathered what it may seem. Those were the boulders crashing against one another with resounding groans as the fragments flew. Where I stood or if I floated nearby, viewing this with disbelief, or suspended wonder: it brought to visualization the war in my mind. Some [nefarious] entity early in my childhood attempted to break through. And did it succeed? How am I now to know? Is it such a fiend-in-the-flesh, some ghoul (a) who wanted to tamper with another’s mind. And discovered: as innocently, as vulnerable, as young as mine was. For I had not any defenses just yet. And not as frightening, now that I am aware of what it has irrevocably performed on me. It is I who thinks these thoughts, or is it the dominatrix, she? This intruder within, who lives off of me. How will I be sure? Or if she has suppressed the nascent (b) reality that was me, mayhap inside this shell I have [indeed/surely] died! In these rare moments she lets the smothered [self] for a moment rise. This occurs, for the casket-bound (c) [will/can] not reanimate since it has lain too long in slumber; if it disturbed it reeks of dried blood and frozen thoughts within (its strangled veins). It presents a [horrific] picture: rotten corpse of a mind caged too soon without a chance to [learn/breathe]. Of these secrets, who is it that in selfishness keeps? How can it be me? Such a fatality surfaces now. Why did she wait for more than ten of our years? Tired now of inflicting cruelty she would carelessly leave -- but who would remain? The infant-in-repose(d) has not the power to fulfill her functions. Am I dead? For how long, and so this dilemma we have on our hands. Know I not who I am: who stole from me my life [when I was still too young]. Do not leave me now ... Grant me a few more years, even though the day, at its mere mention I at times am crippled with discontent of the highest order: There is no choice but to cringe unseen in the recesses, shelved away from everything (that could’ve fed me knowledge and wisdom). Who am I really? Production notes 28Sep95: Another piece recovered
from the Archives, long thought to be lost. This piece retells the
instance whence the writer apparently recognizes the “Other”, a darkling
entity that has often had control, and has been representative as “the
person” upon this sphere. It has been personified as a woman, for no logical
reason, except that certain manifestations during excursions that the “One”
(the physical person, the writer) sporadically embarks on, often leaving
traces in his dreams, or popping up unexpectedly during waking hours as
sudden voices, or even displaced noises.
footnotes:
X: [x] writer’s marks,
originally (x)
to the reader-in-earnest: This is the piece that
I spoke of last night, when we discussed the Five Paths.
1. an elder Verbena Marauder;
He-Who-Reigns-Above only
knows, as to the extent of damage the interloper inflicted upon the subject.
Evidence shows that such damage has been extensive, and solutions
Carpe Noctem,
|
99 Oct 26 (c) copyright
owned by Siddharta Somar
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