Crushed Glasses

Cocooned by infinite space, these planets, these stars… these fragile fires, are but embryos formed within the womb of God. Our dark maternal universe, perpetually birthing multitudinous manifestations. Eternally renewing its hermaphroditic divinity.

I was always so preoccupied with describing the state beyond depression – the state beneath it. The most intensified emotional experience and paradoxically the least: that of emptiness, nothingness, and absence. The seemingly least significant and yet ultimately the most productive and ennobling experience of them all. To plumb the depths of that dark, downward route to Hell is to travel more deeply than one’s capacity for emotion. Hell isn’t society’s notion of pain; it’s a void, and nothingness the sharpest pain of all.

I am not scouring the ever-upward thrusting air of a never-ending pit at present. I am enduring a docile state of sorts, whereby I await oncoming storms and the tornadoes of existential vacuums with my ears sharply pricked. This fish-womb senses it in the peace of her waters before the torrent hits. I feel no reverberations at present.

Though I do feel slightly subdued. My many moods and I… Many friends, or enemies. Who knows? It’s hard to know who to trust - moods excluded. In fact I never trust my moods, they’re less reliable than most people are. It is only their flippancy that I can rely upon.