Subconscious Storm – In the beginning – Part 1

How can I speak with you? I hope you understand my language because the words are not the message but the meaning behind; the senses still commune despite your mother tongue. I call water as it is ;but to you, you may have another word, depending on your heritage, but in essence it is the same. It is an expression of an impression. It cannot fully describe, but gives a doorway to a facet of the jewel.

How do I know it is water, when I have nothing to reference? I’m speaking to those who speak my language, those who cannot, will found my sounds, shapes and sights nonsensical, just like a jabbering mad man. You may create your own meaning which to me is satisfactory .If you can decipher the riddle, and pull yourself from the middle of the restlessness, the blindness, and mute frustration of so many passers by, you might find something sacred; those others in the water.

I will try to understand their language too, for it has a different emphasis, intonation and accent. It is the other side to the story. Those stories can only be spoken with a different voice. Not familiar but kindred. It is imperative to join with those that are kindred so we ought not be a one winged bird, 3 legged octopus or a deaf evangelist.

Subconscious Storm – In the beginning – Part 1

I awoke falling like a dew drop from the stars into a heavy mass of deep water. As I hit the concrete water I was knocked unconscious.

The water was sickly warm with cold pockets of turbulence from the deep. It was a black limitless abyss. As far as my eyes permitted me to see were a curved horizon of two shades of blue. My head was level with the water.

How could I see?

With beating kicks I tried to propel myself into the air, but flailed like a deflated buoy. Exhausted I felt nothing, saw nothing, but I could hear a whimpering sound. The sound of a drained soul carried in the wind. Its freshness did not mix with the arid salted drifting body we floated in. We were in an unnatural place. We were not made to swim.

Would somebody save me?

The sun blistered my face while my body shrivelled water logged and tender. White, wrinkled and decayed, my face darkened with spots and callous creases.
Hours, minutes, seconds, days with no reference point, except the movement of the sun, the ebb and flow of the waves put me to sleep.
I saw shapes of others in the darkness

and decided to dive deep. For a time I sat, willing myself to dive, deliberating because I was afraid and needed to build to the occasion. Under the metallic speckled sky of stars the moon attracted the water. In the caustic reflection a moth landed on my head. It must have been attracted to my light, to my warm blooded soul. I was hungry and wondered if it would satisfy. I picked it from my head and looked into its winged eye pattern. Its appearance left me wondering, but the moth looked so drab. With too much time on my side the temptation beckoned me to act.

The moth cried in a barely audible high pitched frequency. Like the call of bats it pierced my ears attracting only the dogs attuned. I should have thrown the delicate moth into the water, but because of my close proximity and the curiosity that so easily ensnares I closed my eyes in the liquid oil and threw back my head to swallow. The itchy irritation fluttered down my throat drowning in saliva. Out of the mist of the night a cloud of moths drifted around my face. I clutched wildly, grabbing fluttering hand fulls of moth, throwing them into my mouth like a man plucking paper money from the air. I was surviving without daily bread and this it appeared was my only hope of sustenance.


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