||[Mar. 6th, 2007|11:45 pm]
The New Bible Project
That night, our sixth spent together, you destroyed me. The hall of your house was a terrible red, and your hands were cold in mine. Do you remember the words you spoke? (There was a draft coming down the stairs from an open window.) Your voice was not detached but had a dreadful weight to it, like you were revealing a different part of yourself that was deeper than I had reached. |
Afterwards I talked about your "mechanical love", a clockwork that pushed feelings like dust through the veins of your body. If graves were flowers and could bloom, so too act memories, and your words as you spoke them, imploding in the narrow room with the graceful finality of a logic cancerous with your higher emotions. You were never more beautiful than on that day, when you pulled the moon from the skies and let the black tides overwhelm me.
But I learned that we must die in some way in order to create something real. I became possessed by the ideal you had started in me: that in destruction there lay a kind of light, like the type found glimmering at the bottom of glass containers filled with spent gases. What is the expression of a man saved from drowning? It is that of awe. And the art of beginning something, anything, is a power that overwhelms by its act anything at which it might arrive.
And that power runs close to death - along the edge of its hollow form, or in a pool, face to face - then it pulls together everything - light in dark, infinity in a second, freedom in complicity: and you feel unearthly powers move within. Does that alarm you? That sooner or later, we all become God?