Michael Gira. The Egg
He’s growing inside me. I feel him first as a precise and tiny pain in my groin, then gradually as a definite physical presence in my lower intestine, as if I’ve swallowed a complete egg, lodged there, thinking. Soon I feel him moving. He’s announcing himself gently but insistently, reminding me of his existence in my bowels. Now he’s snaking his way through my guts as he grows, sending tendrils out to explore me, incrementally expanding his domain. Over time, I’ve come to realize he’s communicating with me, infecting me with his thoughts. I welcome him. He’s a lining being, advancing warmly inside me. His warmth is a deep pleasure and gives me a sense of impending completion. As ne absorbs me, and I him, spreading out from my stomach and assimilating himself into my bloodstream, he rides through my body on cells and particles and he infuses my brain with his consciousness. No, since I’m completely him, when I look at myself in the mirror naked, I see him. When my wife comes up behind me in the mirror and puts her arms around me and circles her hand on my belly, it’s min that is aroused. When we make love soon thereafter and I spill myself into her it’s him reaching into her, planting his seed, which will in turn spread throughout her body and will slowly change her into him. When I think this though now, it’s him thinking us both into being. We’re loved by him. We’re nesting in his dreams. Soon, his words on this page will infect others, and through them he’ll reach into whole cities, nations, the entire world. His love I the universe expanding as he saturates new frontiers of emptiness with his mind.