Before I Was A Life

Lilith/Rei looks to the sky, pulled by the Ear...

Lilith/Rei looks to the sky, pulled by the Earth’s gravity, and cradles the Egg of Lilith which absorbed the souls of all human beings. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hovering, floating, being.
In a place of darkness, like space, but isn’t space. Blacker than black, a velvety nothingness; interspersed by thousands of bright shining pin-points like stars, but not stars, us. Silver, golden, blue, purple – all hovering, floating, being.
No bodies, no minds as such. Thought-forms undulate around and between us, our collective conscious knowing each other, knowing our very beings, our very thoughts. If thoughts we can be said to have.

Miles and miles away this being watches a sphere, a sphere so full of intriguing life. It is so far away it is but another glowing dot, but in another place. Yet this being can see it as clear as if it were all happening right here, right next to this watcher.
The sphere has so many interesting things happening! Water and air and fire and earth… creatures and more than creatures, those corporeal beings who race through a life seemingly so short yet so full of events, of emotions, of LIFE. This being watches, fascinated, seeing Joy and Love and Despair and Hope and humans being born and dying, and everything in-between. They go through so much, these corporeal beings, they live so much! Endlessly racing, hoping, loving, crying, dying. So much to feel – those emotions that fill them up and make them do things and feel things – and the sun on their faces and air in their hair and grass and rocks and earth underfoot and water streaming over them… This being is transfixed, feeling a pull, wanting to know what all those things feel like. How does the sun feel? How do tears feel? To have a baby? To laugh? To love? To swim? Pain? Misery? To die?

This being is eager. 90 years, is that all? This being projects. 90 years! This being will be back, hovering, floating, being, in no ‘time’ at all! It is nothing, this 90 years of human life. How long has this being been here, watching? Unknown, there is no ‘time’ here. Here is here, forever ‘Now’. But – To experience Human-ness, to FEEL, to understand, to know….

ARE YOU SURE THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT? It projects. The being over and above all shining star-like beings, the Us. The being who rules the rules; The Wyrd; the divinity; the One that keeps all this working, being.
Yes! Yes! I can do this!
No! No! Wait! It’s not as simple as that! Cries the collective conscious. This being knows better – of course it is! What could be more simple? The Human-beings know nothing of the Us, the Rules, the Being-here. They just live their lives in emotion and feeling and physicality – what could be more simple? This being wants to be part of that, to understand it. Only 90 years, it won’t take this being long to fulfil that life.
Edging toward the sphere, excited, pulsing, there is a pull, this being feels it… there is a body being conceived, waiting, waiting for this being…

Yes. The Agreement. The things to adhere to. The things to agree to, in the human life-form. The things this ‘I’ must learn. It’s fine.
This being will remember. Will try to remember. How hard can it be?
The Agreement is made. The path this one’s life must take. The hardships this being agrees to partake in. the lessons of life this being must go through. The relationships and interactions.
Looking, eagerly, for the right parents. The right pair of human-beings to teach this life-form the Agreed lessons, good or ill.
Good or ill? What matters it? It’s all feeling, that’s what this being wants – to feel. Alive! To be alive!
We – this being and the Other; the Rule, the Wyrd, together we find the right Parents. Yes, Perfect! They are perfect.
This being projects a distracted yes, focussing only on the Life. The Parents. That which is about to be. This being knows what will happen if it forgets the Agreement, or does it wrong. This being will not come back here for a very long time. Yet this seems such a trivial thing – how could a being forget in a 90 year span? Such a short time! This being will ensure it gets as much Living as possible done, to feel and do and be everything that is possible in this span! There is no danger. There is no danger-

Flying towards the sphere now – eagerly, as quick as this ‘I’ can go – yes, already I can feel the ‘I’, not of the Us anymore, eagerly to my new home, waiting, down there, on that Earth –
Don’t go! You don’t understand! They project, as I fly past them, barely noticing their shining lights. I laugh, I scorn them. How can you not want to go? I ask Them rashly.
We know! We remember! Listen to us!
Yes, It is done! I tell Them. I will be back soon- and I will tell you how it feels!
They fall silent, defeated, those shining beings, those non-corporeal consciousness’, they let me go, I am no longer One of Them.
The body – I feel it, waiting for me – soon, soon Life will be mine, sweet life and feeling and I will know and understand and I will remember-
I will-
Warm. Watery. Dark. Voices. Comfort.



Story (Untitled)

At first he thought it was the sound of his heart beating that he could hear. Rousing a little, he realised that no, the sound was somewhat wetter than a heartbeat should be. So not his heart – a tide then, pulsing, pulsing against the shore.
Gently, he waved a hand. A minimalist action, the barest exertion of energy expended. His fingers told him grainy; rough; sandy. Sand. So he was on a beach. Slowly, cautiously, Ramok opened an eye. A blazingly blue sky greeted him, the sun shining high overhead. The tide was still booming gently somewhere nearby.
With a quiet groan Ramok attempted movement, each action slow, conserved, necessary: rolling from his back on to his side, folding his legs up, moving his arm across his body onto the sand, he hefted his body upright. Finally he was standing, facing the vast expanse of the sea. Bare feet splayed in the sand, he mentally checked on his condition. Apart from a feeling of incredible tiredness, he seemed to be unharmed. No injuries, no aches, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing, except-
As Ramok’s consciousness fully awakened, he realised what had been troubling him: he had no memory of this place. He had no recollection of how he had come to be here. No inkling as to why he had been lying unconscious on the sand, or why he had expected injury upon waking.
Ramok turned his gaze upon himself. His muscled torso glistened in the sun. His legs had a hint of redness to them, indicating that he must have lain there on the sand for a while, but not too long, else his chest would be red too. He turned his attention to his arms, bringing each one up, level with his face, for meticulous examination. Each was completely bare, naked. Nothing there but his own skin. Next, his hands scoured his thick, brown hair and roamed across his face. A face that women smiled at. A face that smiled at women – yet it was not smiling now. As with his torso, legs, arms, it was bare. No adornments. Nothing on him that he had not been born with. Except for a black silken loincloth.
Thoughtfully, Ramok dropped his arms to his sides again and stood staring out at the gently rolling sea. Nothing else was in view north, east or south. No coastline. No island. Not even a vessel.
No memory. Endless sea. And a black loincloth.
“Ah crap,” he said.


Lady Time

Her face is pale; thin, strong, implacable. Her eyes, ice blue. Her gaze fixes, but does not see you. Her hair is long and silken – now raven black, now pure white, and every shade between. Her stride is steady – neither fast nor slow, but continuous: adamantly, unstoppably, She continues, Her soft footfalls echo in your mind as She forever moves on. Her gown is long, graceful, trailing delicately behind Her, the ends whispering upon your feet as she forever… moves on.

Stop! You say: Wait! Please wait! But She does not – She cannot – wait. Why should She, for a mere mortal? What are you, to Her who is eternity?
Time! I need more time! If only I had more time… and, for an instant, it looks like Time may pause: She slows, barely, Her head cocked as if listening, as if She heard – but no, her foot falls again to the next step, forever moving on. You must keep up with Her, not Her with you. Occasionally her pace does change – occasionally She does slow, hesitate, pause… and occasionally she hastens, rushing forward, speeding up – for what reason only She knows. Not for your whim, certainly. Not for your pleading – She is not a Goddess to heed prayers, but a force of Her own reckoning and the impact of Her change of pace leaves an indelible mark on us, who must always be in Her presence.

Time: friend, and enemy. Love Her, hate Her – She does not care. An indolent, an insolent, smile upon Her lips as She passes by you, seemingly mocking your meagre thoughts, your paltry prayers.
Time is the friend of children: She grants them eternity in their play, their time to grow, the long summers and endless Christmases, the ability to forget – and maybe forgive – hurts. She gives favour, too, to those in the teenage years: wisdom, out of childhood, without the responsibility of adulthood. The eagerness and ambition of Youth’s Dream – She gives them all this, if only they can recognise it; grasp it; use the gift of Time.
And then… She moves on. You were that child; you were that youth… why should She grant yet more favour to you, the adult? Go with Her wisely – for She will not wait, not ever.

Will you grasp Her hand, and walk side by side with Her, or battle Her, fighting to the bitter end? How can you win? How can you ever win? She is Time, eternal. She does not notice your desperate attempts, your vain ministrations, to turn back the clock.
The mistakes you make are your own – not Hers to rewind. Will you move forward as She does? Or spend your life clinging to the hem of Her gown, attempting to reverse the irreversible?

I will not grow old! I will do everything – everything! – to stay youthful! Time will not beat me! Time smiles – that knowing, cold, impersonal smile – for She knows that there is no beating, no winning – there is only Time. And She marches onward, unstoppably, implacably onward. All the battles, are of course, eventually lost, and you scream, your life a misery, dwelling in lost youth and lost beauty, cursing Time – time and again.
But those who grow old with dignity, who grow old gracefully; looking forward, not back, looking at the time She gave you, and realising the gift She has given you – those who relish the crinkles around their eyes, and what greying hair means; those who understand that time departed is memory, hurt and sore, departed; those are the ones who can look Time in the eye when their Time comes, and as long lost friends greeting each other – those are the ones who can say with pride, as Time grips their hand warmly, the lips now friendly, Her eyes sparkling, seeing you for the first time, as you slip out of Her grip, and it is you who moves forward without Her, with the understanding of Time:
I have won.

The Corridor

The corridor was dark. Narrow. Too narrow. Too dark to see more than what was right in front of me. I could just make out the outline of objects scattered in my way, but not what they were. I did not want to know.
The floor was cement, a thin carpet running along the middle of it. The walls were slab. Cold. Wet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Echoing. From somewhere. An insistent reminder. I did not want to move past the doorway.
Tiny scrabblings, buzzings, of cockroaches, flies, and worse. Bound to be spiders. Huge. Spinning webs the width of the human-less corridor.

Deep breath. My heart was not hammering: I did not have a heart.
I could feel my veins pulsing, throbbing.
Dripthrob… Dripthrob… Dripthrob
Slowly, cautiously, I put a foot forward. Crunch. Then the other. Crunch. Darkness, all darkness. I wanted to put my hand on the wall for reassurance. But there was no reassurance. I moved again, kept going. Manoeuvre around the unknown objects. Avert eyes, close eyes, don’t look. Don’t touch. Move with foot if I have to. Crunch crunch.
Dripthrob…. Dripthrob….. Dripthrob

Slimy, squelchy, crunchy, wisps of webs, dankness, darkness. Always darkness. Godless. Hades would not rule here. This belonged to the Nemesis of Bacchus; too much temptation for eternity, the joy burnt out aeons ago, indolence, carelessness, strength born only of anger and selfish indulgence… passion gone wrong. Anti-passion. The fruit of passion left to go rotten.

Squelchcrunch Dripthrob Squelchcrunch Dripthrob Squelchcrunch Dripthrob

The corridor ended. I sought for the door – here, on the left. Not even the door-lock gleamed. Gloom and dank sucking in every scrap. The door felt sticky. I used my foot. The door swung open, creaking. Lifelessness continued. Light – there at the far end. No panic. Just an abstract desire to not be here. A thought risen unbidden from the deep pit of the mind, the part that simply watches and observes its vehicle at work. This place was like that. Pit of the mind. Repressed past.

The light. Low wattage, but still light.
Pale unmoving bodies lay strewn around. Blank eyes followed me. I was at the back of the room.
I kneeled down. Bodies on either side, but enough space, enough not to touch. Barely. Moans issued from their mouths like banshees at torture.
I closed my eyes. Nonsensical sounds crescendo from pale, parted lips, faster faster, faster.
I spoke silently. Lips and mouth moving. Not vocal chords. Shudder, shudder. Racked by convulsions.
Moaning moaning screaming.
Shudder shudder.

I found my heart.
As I did every time I came here.
I found my heart.
And I left.

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