Dharma

The spaces between our breaths narrow in their sighing pauses of unfathomable depth, inhaling the gods. If my lips could part and do more than breathe, those sacred words would poor forth with soft falls upon eager ears. Cross-legged and angry the inhibited breath takes the spaces to an inward control, feeling restriction binding, and a tourniquet for the heart. It fits into the frame of things this square of reasoning but still it pushes for release continually growing in my mind. It is soft and smooth like the touch of a hand on my naked skin but with an edge sharp as lightning cuts thrusting deeper into my mind with viscous slashes of static charge. I feel small and the smallness grows.

Lost minds crawl between the floorboards trodden underfoot by monstrous unthinking brutes. It is a tender fear, insanity; so much loved but these harkening cries flood the hallway with phantoms of shadows tricked from my mind. I am so afraid to descend the stairs.

Loose thoughts lack cohesion but still they are stirring, seeking to look through my eyes at wonder on the world. I cannot deny them and close my eyes or they will turn inward on me and breed their living flesh into gothic nightmares beyond all proportion. Eyes wide staring at nothing, mouth tight shut I dare not speak unpredictability. It would be a disaster if, as I envisage my skin fallen to the floor and I left standing muscle and sinew without decent covering. I used to see this vision but it was always other flesh not my own. Now do I feel the vulnerability that I saw and condemned in them?

Call down the very sky that hangs limp above my head laden with her grotesque, breathing pregnancy of rain, if she spews forth her vile progeny without skin I fear what she will do to me. Every spot pecking at me with its razored beak. My whole body open wound, I fear the dust in the air settling and clinging to it. I cannot touch anything for the pain of contact nor can I wash it clean or disguise it with clothing.

Piece by piece I am falling apart, a degenerate rotting of the mind. A sea of grey stretching its lazy torso into life within my head. Its arms have claws mapping lines of unintelligible geometry on what is left of my body. Crawling into its grotesque shapes, I remember that I am no longer what I am supposed to be.

I am Twice-Born. In Hinduism and Buddhism, the twice-born are those who have received religious instruction and have realized its truths. This life is now grounded in Dharma having rejected a life of sense gratification.

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