Across the dark horizon trefoils of light bloom; petals open in tongues of flame. It seems to me I have beheld bright shapes for a stretch of time asymptotically approaching infinity. The concept of a womb eternally barren stretches past my imagination's limits as the nexus of shifting color pulls me in.

Rays of impossibly bright hues peer past my skull and survey my consciousness; they make as if to embrace my skeleton with irradiated fingers of crystal. The whole of my intelligence is reduced not only to nothing, but subzero: capable of committing immense stupidities in the umber of the brilliance I face.

Not only am I incapable of thought — the concept of thought goes out of the world. Everything is action and repose, fire and ice. Out of the cornucopia of living color that scours me, only the blues leave ringing tracers on my inner visual field. Cerulean of an artificial day-ocean floods my orbs.

The only body I can be said to possess is this inertiatic nucleus of ignorance and obscurity that swallows everything it touches into the heaving center of its black hole. I have no mind, but the streaks of vital lumosity that instream substitute for one. My hands are the lingering impressions of forms long-lost that hover around me electron-like.

Artificial day stays; night never comes. What were once trefoils of light have become shapeless masses zoomed in too close, so that life becomes pixellated. I try to think of a way to become less coarse and resuscitate those conceptual subtleties that so fired me once. The attempt fails, and I still cannot conceive of void.

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|  original writing and art  |
| — — by @d-pend — — |
| published April 6, 2020. |

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