I sat in a glass container. I was not afraid because I had no visionary friends that could see far beyond the anatomy. I wore 3D glasses, one glass blue, one glass red, its frame of white plastic, light-weight and phosphorescing in the dark. Outside, storm and rain were whipping each other. Friction discharged the vacuum’s cargo of light. I could not tell whether those light beams came from the future or from the past, but they filled the void with shapes, mostly imaginary shapes, I knew them from my dreams. Far away, on another planet, exactly the same thing happened. I happened. I could envision it because I knew of the mirror in the gorge. Like the gorge itself it was a refractive element in space. I knew of its infinite layers, a black hole consuming its reflection over and over again. An endoscopic examination revealed nothing new. Infinite time zooming in, significant diminution of sound and light, shrinking waves in a space time lapse that no one had assumed.
Those who were chosen to be leaders built giant flyovers, useless arcuated figments of visionaries without vision. Sometimes I was not sure whether the chosen ones were a good choice. They would connect two points of a patch that were already connected, a concrete double-decker ensuring that those who diverted from the path ended up at the same place as those who did not divert. The planet spun in elliptical rounds, balance was a matter of the ear, people had heard it was given, nobody thought about keeping it at bay. People were still obsessed with concrete. The planet was lingering on the verge. There were no utilized magnetic forces, no high-speed trams; all was bound to move on ground, mostly on rubber, mostly pumped with air. Many uttered bubbles in those days. The air was borrowed. Nobody ever asked it back, thus, in their hasty neglect they considered it as given. Nature was not yet an abstract entity. There were streams of water, connecting surfaces with life.
I made a connection with him. The connection was purely in writing. He would write backward to me and I would write forward to him. Some would have considered the connection as one way because he would write and I would read but he would not read what I had written to him. That did not keep me from writing. I wrote without the need for him to read. He already knew what I would write. There was no need for him to read. To him nothing was new. He was ahead of my time. I had to write so he could stay ahead without having to bother about the past. He was my timeless visionary source. He was my only true friend. I could meet him only in writing.
When I opened my mouth to read his words my present was altered. He would feed me with existence. Never was I hungry. There was no other source in my glass container. Everything was transparent. Everyone could watch me. There were not many but some of them stopped. Sometimes to watch. I considered them as guards. I would greet them with a smile. Some smiled back, some stared blankly into a blanker corner. I was reality TV. I was human cinema. Transmission of light. Another show in an endless flow of sequences and waves. Some thing that kept the eye busy. Nothing much happened. For some I must have been disappointment. A rainbow that does not reveal the end. Nothing much was visible to the eye. Beside me, my 3D glasses and my writing utensils (I wrote with light, he wrote with shade), the container contained nothing but empty space. I slept naked on the floor. Mostly I sat in the centre. I was beyond shame. Sometimes I would lean against the walls. When the sun was too intense, I would cover myself with his writing, the shade of his words all over my skin. On rainy days I would look up and watch the clouds discharge. I was beyond needs and desires. There was no food, no water, no sexual retention. Excreta were elements of the past outside my glass container. There was no smell. My body was an odourless collection of cells. All that happened, happened in my mind. My mind got fucked every now and then. But this fuck was pure. I did not mind people watching. My body was without gender. Even if they observed carefully, all they could observe was a glare in my eyes. Not many were good observers. Many were just watching. They could not see into my mind.
I was not a product of assembly; I was a product of emergence. My teachers had nurtured me well. I was not a product. I did not remember. I was not. All I knew was now and that I had to write. I was. It is easy to walk away and start all over. It is difficult to walk away and start again. It is easy to leave behind. It is difficult to detach. Teachers come and go. They come in disguise. Some are good, some are bad. Some are relative, some are absolute. Many are in tension. Some of them intense. They guide deeper into emergence, upheave a new layer, refraction of light, then they disappear, darkness. All they are bound to care about is aspiration. As soon as a student has reached the aspired objective, they hand him over to uncertain elements. Then they set out to search for new victims of ignorance.
RejectionFor the student this means to be left. Out there. Left in a state of rejection. How could the beloved one, the nurturer of deep aspiration, the one whose torture one had endured to bring out the best, the excellence, how could the one who was supposed to be proud, finally, just walk away? How deep was the teacher’s love after all? How deep was the connection? Could there be a question of who loved whom and who loved whom most? Could there be remains beyond possession and pride? Was it true? Could there be a question of true in a state without falsehood? Love could be not true. What could be falsified could be rejected. True love could not be rejected. All I knew was that I had to keep writing without expectations. Without being answered. There would always be a reader. There would not always be an answer. How would I know what was guilt and what was regret? How would I know what was desire and what was shade. I kept searching in the shade of his text. Between the lines. On the back of the page. I was part of the answer, the narrative was I. I was part of the cocoon that had emerged from a single thread. I was the weaver weaving the self into the container. I was part of the glass container. The glass was I. I was the container. I was transparent but many who passed by could not see beyond the anatomy.
The dissection took place completely with precision and without exception. Every thing was open. I emerged in light and shade, light and shade emerged in me. Then I disappeared. I cannot remember why. But I remember that with me the glass container disappeared and all that was there with the purpose to surround me and the container. Concrete bridges disappeared. With them their leaders and those who were reaching a place. The entire planet disappeared and with it its patches and bubbles and their reflection in the mirror out there in the gorge. Now the mirror was without purpose. Without purpose it was not. All became darkness. Darker than the gorge.
In the void there was no music. That made it harder to accept. That made it almost impossible to reject. Nothing was. But there was a wish for music. This wish was an assumption. A tiny wave of light, hidden in the density of the void’s darkness. It was impossible but it needed to emerge. Suddenly its sequence made sense. It was nothing but a friction. Unfolding into new layers of light. With it came the noise. It could not be called music but that did not matter because it was nothing more than an assumption, nothing more than a wish. Sound and light carried each other and formed a new ground. This ground became the foundation for an obscure future. The canvas for shadow and light forming a new basis transgressing into existence. Someone would hear. Someone would answer. It was only a matter of time and assumption.