(no subject)

[proximoception]

At night all stairways descend to the same darkness. Something might do anything to us, in such a dark.

Once it seemed the world had so many roads we couldn't help but find our way. But you find they all join up on the other side. After that the road on is only the road back.

You start to want something to do anything to you. You go downstairs. You hurt your shoulder on a shelf edge. You turn on a light. The darkness settles back in silent seething. You make a sandwich. You go back to bed.

You go downstairs again, more carefully. Standing there the darkness is a wall. Instead of freeing you it presses against your limits, making them felt. It confines you. You must move about in it to prove to yourself you can. Outdoors where there are fewer shelves.

Outdoors. You come to a field. You run. A few stars shine among clouds, but this is probably for the best. They keep the prevalent dark just out of reach. You avoid the touch of it. You don't want that wall, but instead a darkening path. A downward one so you can't be sure of the ground. Enclosing branches above to remove the sky. There you will be free. You find such a place in the woods, run down a dry black tunnel.

You stop just before you're confined again. Your feet are half-buried in living leaves. You hear water in several directions. What is it you want here?

The blackness itself is quite boring. You want what's inside it.

What's inside it proves interesting for a moment, like a lit match. But then bores like a spent one. You don't want what's merely suddenly sensed.

There's somewhere you want to be, and since you've never seen it anywhere in the light...

You lie down among the bushes, grab handfuls of leaves, tear up roots, scratch yourself on branches as you roll about, sullying yourself. You put some fibers in your mouth, bite down, spit them out. Long ago you discarded your clothes.

It's a wash, the last star says as the clouds slide shut. You fall asleep.

You dream of a small bright house beneath an immense rock cliff. Inside there is an old lit stove surrounded by a circular table surrounded by many seated children. By the stove, enclosed with it, is an old man serving them soup with a ladle. His eyes reflect the flames no matter which way he faces. You come in through a window and ask for some soup. When you meet his eyes his flames singe your lashes. But he serves you. Your bowl is made of metal. The soup is like mercury. You see your true face in it, something of all colors and no shape that flickers and flows. Your eyes are the last star twinned with the first. Your spoon is wooden, cracked. You know that the taste of this soup will be the most horrible thing, but you cannot control your hand.

You wake up under arrest, naked in a car behind a policeman who hates you. The sky lightens above you as you pull onto a highway. You look at the trees. They get darker and darker. It's all still there inside somewhere. It's not like you were wrong.