micro flashes of neon spark behind the eyelids. i close my eyes tight… tighter. the colours blink and blind. they dance. they sparkle, streak and fluoresce. it’s a beautiful sight, despite seeing blind.
from my bed, i can see deep space – seemingly endless darkness. darkness and dancing lights. these are not fairy lights to furnish my festive mood, these are galaxies that shimmer. these are nebulae. with my eyes closed, i feel i have my back to the sun and i am staring out into deepest darkest space. i can see 13 billion light years into the distance, into the past. i can see the birth of the universe itself. it feels so close. tethered to my bed, if i could snip the birthing cord, i would float off into deep space. i would lose myself there, for sure. but lose myself in my thought.
and what of our own mythologies? these constructs of self-imposed mystery in which we clad ourselves. the fables of self-perception and the myriad of different selves we create by thought, and the thoughts of others. do these other selves exist in alternative universes? of course they do. the self i see is very real. you will, in your perception of me, create another Kathryn. how many Kathryns exist and co-exist and collapse and collide into one another? are they real? what does your Kathryn look like? she will differ from mine, but she will be real and have her own back-story and mythology. what colour are her eyes?
and what of the tiger lillies and sugar-coated almonds of memory? so many memories exist. so many memories yet to be born.
hands up who remembers their own birth?
i once had wings. i once could breathe underwater. but that was many many years ago.
we humans are dangerous. we love, we maim – with words and actions. we destroy. we share, and we covet. we are greedy and self-serving. we could face our own extinction and not care. what do the animals think of us, and the zoos… the volitional cages we exist in? materialism. we are driven by materialism. and these frames… time frames, mainframes, wire frames and picture frames. pictures, we all see differently. the colour blue – my blue will differ from yours. we could learn so much from animals. yet we wittingly protract our souls. we must nurture our creativity and not lose that childlike innocence. cognitive dissonance. we are blinkered. we do not care about anything outside of our periphery. but we should care.
the pills are really taking effect now. am i dreaming? lucid dream. these dark thoughts steer the subconscious to terrifying places. the mind now a post-apocalyptic holocaust.
the lights have gone out. no indoor fireworks. no cute furry bunnies or pugs. no giant strawberries in this field. my mind is no longer the fun fair, or childhood tree-house.
it is a barren and arid place… i stand barefoot upon the baked and cracked earth. a voice calls my name. i recognise the voice. i walk towards the source and find an old lady, in a rocking chair, sitting with her back to me. she has my mother’s hair, and voice. she calls my name: “Kathryn…”
i stand in front of her. she is my mother, yet she has morphed into a giant ant.
[Morphine+Burroughs has proven to be a horrible combination]
she fixes her eyes upon me. her feelers grope and fumble. on six limbs, she grapples towards me, touching me. i recoil at the sight of her. what has my mother become?
i take a step back, she advances. it’s a strange dance.
she spits at me. the hot fetid acid burns into my side. it hurts. it hurts like Hell. i scream. but my voice is silent. i scream. i howl and yowl, like a wounded animal, as the acid bubbles and dissolves my body. the stench is indescribable. the pain unbearable. the light is fading.
i writhe and twist in agony, retching and spewing as i watch my own body dissolve in a pool of blood and bubbling flesh. my strength is dissipating. i can barely move. the neurotoxins have paralysed my being.
she motions to her army.
soon, i am being feasted upon by one hundred ants. giant ants. i feel their spit burn into me. the pain. the seething pain. their armoured bodies are overwhelming. the sound of the scuttling is terrifying. they are powerful and i have no strength to fight. i am eaten alive. i feel their pincers, bite. sharp. they pick at my bones. the sound of their gnashing and grinding. the sound of my own flesh being peeled from my bones like the sound of tearing bedsheets. i cry out. my voice cannot be heard above the crunching of bone and the fizz of melting flesh.
no more lights. only darkness.
only darkness exists now.
(c) Kat McDonald 2015