(no subject)
Shuttered walls of a concrete-thin snake twist around to reveal the source of light. It's a streetlamp, burning yellow, crystal shapes through unbrittle lenses of my glasses.
I stop, said spectacle set a job to be rubbed against my shirt, and the flat yellow light fills and splits and deepens, three dimensional in a world of two dimensions: movement and colour. Strawyellow tendrils snake out towards me and the third dimension slips into fourth: time and inconsequence.
Every man and every woman is a star. At the heart of the strawberry blonde light the original crystal pulses with it's newfound ability to move from moment to moment, an implosion followed by an explosion as it's universe collapses and reforms. Each reformation is crystalline but inconsistent.
There is a flaw deep in the centre and the message, the reformation, is corrupted. Each rebirth scrapes across my senses as I realise the muddy waters that have corrupted the light. Lethe is she and there is no progression, no reality, no growth as the heartbeat of it deconstructs the crystal temple without the essential core blueprint.
My otherside eyes slip away from this travesty and into the pools of dark swimming around the light in the light breeze. I have no purpose: my hands move automatically, my sight dulled by the pound of this new headache, my feet urging homewards, sleep oblivion in dark sweet.
Dark shifts and drags my attention, unwillingly, back from the mundane and into the super-conscious speed that says: there is something in the dark, unlit, something sinuous and receptive. It is the sound of calling in the woods. It is the figure watching from the corner. It is the watcher, and the dark's eye opens, and it is the Eye of Horus; my Eye of Horus; the eye that is tattoed invisibly inplacably to my forehead and in the shadows not cast but rather pooling around the piercing now-dull light it stares back at me. Within the madness at the centre of the Eye, you see the knowing; they are the same, madness wrapped with words around a core of wordless comprehension, the knowing is Mnemosyne at the centre, and there - see, within the cushion of madness within the darkness, there is that blueprint of the Temple.
Hidden in memory not forgetfulness, hidden in memory dark and unlovely, hidden in form illuminated to sight by light outside only. The Eye of Horus within the dark and the Eye of Horus illuminated by the harsh pulse of blonde light are the same, concurrent and consecutive, amalgamated and homogenous. My eye the eye of horus is open and in creeps the flower queens yellow and pulsing light and caresses the dimensioned blueprint I hold within and out rushes the construct, the Temple, constructed now with my blue-grey, my crystal blueprint the reality illuminating the temple, built to the specifications I hold within me as the unseen reflection of the dark.
The Temple's Majesty staggers me; but it's late, and I'm tired, and now I'm showing off.
I put on my now-clean glasses and fold myself back into the man standing watching, blindly, drunken on the inability to see. The streetlamp is no decrepit ageless queen, but rather a streetlamp; the lane's walls no longer slip into the patterns of the temple. The temple which I forget as easily as I found, the knowledge hidden in a wellspring within me, now only to be tapped by charcoal filtered whiskey or starlit intention.
It's time to get gone, time to get home.
I stop, said spectacle set a job to be rubbed against my shirt, and the flat yellow light fills and splits and deepens, three dimensional in a world of two dimensions: movement and colour. Strawyellow tendrils snake out towards me and the third dimension slips into fourth: time and inconsequence.
Every man and every woman is a star. At the heart of the strawberry blonde light the original crystal pulses with it's newfound ability to move from moment to moment, an implosion followed by an explosion as it's universe collapses and reforms. Each reformation is crystalline but inconsistent.
There is a flaw deep in the centre and the message, the reformation, is corrupted. Each rebirth scrapes across my senses as I realise the muddy waters that have corrupted the light. Lethe is she and there is no progression, no reality, no growth as the heartbeat of it deconstructs the crystal temple without the essential core blueprint.
My otherside eyes slip away from this travesty and into the pools of dark swimming around the light in the light breeze. I have no purpose: my hands move automatically, my sight dulled by the pound of this new headache, my feet urging homewards, sleep oblivion in dark sweet.
Dark shifts and drags my attention, unwillingly, back from the mundane and into the super-conscious speed that says: there is something in the dark, unlit, something sinuous and receptive. It is the sound of calling in the woods. It is the figure watching from the corner. It is the watcher, and the dark's eye opens, and it is the Eye of Horus; my Eye of Horus; the eye that is tattoed invisibly inplacably to my forehead and in the shadows not cast but rather pooling around the piercing now-dull light it stares back at me. Within the madness at the centre of the Eye, you see the knowing; they are the same, madness wrapped with words around a core of wordless comprehension, the knowing is Mnemosyne at the centre, and there - see, within the cushion of madness within the darkness, there is that blueprint of the Temple.
Hidden in memory not forgetfulness, hidden in memory dark and unlovely, hidden in form illuminated to sight by light outside only. The Eye of Horus within the dark and the Eye of Horus illuminated by the harsh pulse of blonde light are the same, concurrent and consecutive, amalgamated and homogenous. My eye the eye of horus is open and in creeps the flower queens yellow and pulsing light and caresses the dimensioned blueprint I hold within and out rushes the construct, the Temple, constructed now with my blue-grey, my crystal blueprint the reality illuminating the temple, built to the specifications I hold within me as the unseen reflection of the dark.
The Temple's Majesty staggers me; but it's late, and I'm tired, and now I'm showing off.
I put on my now-clean glasses and fold myself back into the man standing watching, blindly, drunken on the inability to see. The streetlamp is no decrepit ageless queen, but rather a streetlamp; the lane's walls no longer slip into the patterns of the temple. The temple which I forget as easily as I found, the knowledge hidden in a wellspring within me, now only to be tapped by charcoal filtered whiskey or starlit intention.
It's time to get gone, time to get home.