Bright colours. A spongy sofa. The counsellor, practically knee to knee with you. The counsellor, giving you a chance to speak, to have your say. The counsellor, taking you seriously. And what are you going to say? What will you tell her?
I am dead, tell her that. I’ve never been born, say that. Something in me is not alive, say that. Death has opened its eyes in mine, say that.
My limbs feel heavy. My head feels heavy, say that. I can barely lift my arms. I can barely lift my eyelids, say that. I want to sleep all the time. I want to lie down, say that.
I don’t feel real. I don’t think anything is real, say that. I feel numbed. Stunned, say that. I am a puppet. Someone else is controlling me. Something else. Say that.
I am made of glass, say that. I have no insides, say that. My voice is not mine, say that. My heart is not mine. My hands are not mine. My brain is not mine. Say those things, blank-voiced, desolate.
And then, looking up, bright-eyed, wild-eyed, tell her of your joy – your wild, impersonal joy. Tell her of time torn open. Torn apart. Tell her of demented time. Tell her that you’ve been outside. Tell her you’ve heard non-human laughter.
Tell her of your cosmic life. Your demonic life. Tell her you’ve felt germinal forces. Magnetic forces. Tell her that nothing is solid. That nothing is finished. Tell her the world is a monster of energy. Tell her there are only forces and densities, not forms and matters. Tell her there are only peaks, troughs, currents and counter-currents, and nothing enduring.
Tell her of superabundance. Of excess. Tell her that you have too much life, too much health. Tell her of dispossession. Of vectors of loss. Tell her of divine cancers. Tell her that you die incessantly. Tell her of the unmaking your body. Of delirial energy. Tell her of energetic intensities. Of cosmic becomings. Tell her of slipstreams and rapids.
Tell her that the stars are blind and burn blindly. Tell her that the stars are stigmata, points of pain. Tell her of blazing shoals, of the cathedral night. Tell her of noctilucae, of the road of stars on water. Tell her you ride the sea like flotsam. Tell her you ride broken on the breaking sea.
Tell her you are the brink. The precipice. Tell her that lightning continually strikes above you. Tell her you are thinking too much, and that they are not your thoughts. Tell her that it thinks, and that it is coming. Tell her of its might and strength.
Tell her of the electric storms inside your head. Tell her of the sunspots inside your head. Tell her of the sky undone inside your head. Tell her of the angels that sing inside you. Tell her of God-gone-mad. Tell her that God is death. Tell her of the holy masochism. Tell her that chaos sings. Tell her of monstrous love. Tell her of the looming stars inside your head.
Tell her you burn with the great fire of God. Tell her of the Chinese dragons that writhe and die inside your head. Tell her of the white point of the apocalypse. Tell her that you thirst for sacrifice.
Tell of her the tears frozen on your cheeks. Tell her of astral fever. Tell her of the greater Day. Tell her of the infinite void inside your head. Tell her of your deliriums. Of your fever-dreams. Tell her of bleeding from wounds on your hands and feet. Tell her of your glad stigmata.
Tell her of the Agony inside your head. Tell her of the Incarnation inside your head. Tell her of star-motes glittering on the water. Tell her of the broken stars, lapping. Tell her of the shattering of the vessels of light. Tell her of starry fragments. Of part-divinities. Tell her of sky-roads, of light paths, riding.
Tell her of the unsheathed dawn inside your head. Of the death-day, rising, inside your head. Tell her of divine slavery. Tell her of the stellar lash. Tell her of the living breach inside your head. Tell her of nerves of fire. Tell her of the holy annihilation. Of the divine viscera. Tell her of Franz Marc's burning animals. Tell her of the melting faces of Redon's saints.
Tell her that the heart of the sun is dark. Tell her that the heart of darkness is light. Tell her that your lips are bloody. That your hands are bloody. Tell her you want simply to speak the truth.
Tell her that these are the last days. The days of God. Tell her the angels are on your side. That the saints are on your side. Tell them that the time of the end is upon us. Tell her of a hope that is not your hope. Tell her of a future that is not your future.
Tell her of the first morning of the world. Tell her of the eternal New Year. Tell her the youngest animals will soon run across the earth. That the sun will become the youngest sun.
Tell her of light striking down. Tell her of being remade in the crucible. Tell her of innocence. Of faith. Tell her of unsnarling what was snarled. Tell her of flux and reflux inside your head. Tell her that gods are everywhere, inside your head. Tell her of the burning eye inside your head. Tell her of the collapse of time inside your head.
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