April 14, 2015 § 5 Comments
He was safely back, infinite once again, the self-without-end—and he was breathless.
The idea had been so simple, to live as his creation did, briefly, vividly, fueled by aspirations, appetites, dreams and fears, and to do it as all who lived and died must, without anything more than the collective rumor about something greater that hid behind the sky.
That unprovable belief justified the brevity of life, the inevitability of death, and gave meaning to both.
So he hid who he was from himself and was born, delivered out of a dark sheltering safety, with tears and straining muscles, into the arms of a mother.
Though her lips were cracked from the dry heat of the place and she was exhausted, she was the beautiful sun at the center of his universe.