Everywhere around me words and meanings, violently ripped from each other by unknown, undescribable forces. I try to make sense out of it by using the only weapon in my trembling hands: my mind. And then I see.
I see men grabbing sharp, rusted daggers and stabbing their foreheads, trying to open new eyes. Their wounds become bloody typewriters and they scream in ecstasy as they bleed the words of creation into the world. I see women in labour, giving birth to new ideas and then devouring them; Saturn incarnated in post- modern context. I see those who were born adults, desperately trying to be children in vain, in pain.
I see insanity.
Pure, relentless madness.
I try to close my eyes but my eyelids are the colour of the world, so I cannot hide from its vampiric smile. There is only one way out: I dip my hands into the darkest corners of my mind and paint my face, my eyes, my heart with the purest black.
But the darkness gives birth to stars. I look into these newborn stellar bodies and see desires, desires of being, desires of doing, desires of desiring and not desiring. And these desires bloom into supernovae and die violently, only to give birth to desires made of heavier elements. Could this be the truth? There is no escape, everything collapses under the weight of the black holes I, the Creator, have brought into life. I feel their gravity pulling me into oblivion and I try to grab from something, from my self, my centre of existence. But there is no centre, there are no boundaries, nothing to hold on. There is only I, and I is only in Infinity, no beginnings and no endings. There never were and never will. The black holes pull me in and compress me into nothingness, where I meet you and the others I thought I had lost before I was born as a crying little Me.
And, finally, I am there and back under a starlit sky.