The Sun Cries Out Loud [Eruptis, Part 3]
I recognise The Supreme Point as I fall into the depths of memory after dinner. The newness of body and being has forced me into anthropological hunts through my nectarine association of neurons. While attempting to decipher the script Goddess Eruptis left me, it has been seventy-two hours of looking at Samson and Pulovsky as the nether bridge of life connecting life.
There is a dot that glows subliminally from the position they are locked in. The position is akin to Parivritta Trikonasana, greatly immersed in alignment while looking beyond one’s back. Told you—they were busy scratching each other’s backs.
The Bindu hurts my consciousness as I begin to see its faint glow rapturing. I am recovering the super-sanity of all the lives I’ve lived across the cosmos.
The Supreme Point, written by a distant star T Sharp, delivers this command:
Telemetric displays occulting chaos,
Constant rainbows of telling lights.
The bleak harmony of the signals I receive in my mind while I sit here recovering memory arrives in a gush of poems, in gurgling streams and fluttering string lights of revelation. I hear birds cooing in the distance, yet I am far from what it means to be on Earth.
I unbutton my green dress, and the buttons remind me of the Control Panel, just as they remind me of the hooks that serenade a life upon life, in a constant hand-holding of events that chariot-propel a narrative. But I had fallen out of a narrative long ago; much to Goddess Eruptis’ amusement.
As my mind spins into its centrifugal force, I move closer to the dot, the Bindu that sizzles without growling. The Supreme Point. The Sun I see through this vessel's window. The Sun I recognise as myself in whatever narrative remains.
The recognition dawns, albeit delayed: a slow, comforting oscillation that reveals itself as the pendulum passes through its mean position.
Here, this glow dot remembers that it is.
There is a rocket on the far horizon, blaspheming through the timeline calisthenics of collective event-memory.
What year could that be?
What time is it in Era Cleo’s bedroom one April, when she was sixteen years old, buried in journaling and wondering how far she would have to fly to remember the embodiment of everything?
*[The three chapters from my ongoing manuscript conclude here. The rest will be in my drafts. Until it comes to life fully awake.]
Special mention (book): The Supreme Point, by Thomas Sharp