||[Apr. 28th, 2007|04:01 am]
The New Bible Project
I must hide my face here, spouting endless lines of worthless prose until something clicks, or gives. I won't even touch my usual journal until I can write something that's not shit. Looking back, I can't think of anything I've written that I can hold up as evidence of talent. So I'm better at art, so I'm better at photography; I don't have A-levels or any projects that could get me into Art schools. I just have this, and film; and this is the only way I can do something without getting fucked with by Big Bosses all the time. The truth: I fucking hate writing. I'm just compelled to it, to do it, to fail in it always.
And then I was swallowed by the trembling jungle darkness, the rich and sacred air sinking deep into my lungs as I ran. No persecutor caught me, no trap ensnared me. My body breathed "Shantih, shantih, shantih" as I ran, my senses overwhelmed by the odours and sounds of the night: yet beyond that there was merely a resonance within me, as when one's hand reaches for something and brushes against something else hidden - which is the sensation of all half-apprehended feelings.
Looking to my right, I saw a man running beside me, flitting between the low foliage of the trees. He looked towards me as he ran, his expression veiled in darkness that seemed to concentrate itself under his brow. He was not running towards me, nor was he running away, but sometimes he broke ahead of me only to fall behind again in time.
We paused by a pool. The trees cast purple shadows over the water, which shimmered black and silver beneath my movements, throwing up a glimmer into the runner's face. I drank while he stood nearby, tasting the earth and the tops of trees in the water. The frogs were deafening: in the moonlit jungle the sound was vague and terrifying, looming limitlessly within my soul. I fought against the desire to shout, to drown them out - to drown out the jungle with my body's waters, shallow as my eyes' pupils, and our heartbeats and the rage we can't sustain - at which is the mouth of the jungle and its eternal rage.
We started again and the fever was upon me as I ran, beads of sweat stinging my eyes and running down my nose. My thoughts were stretched like lost manuscripts over the wick of my aching body - each thought not experienced but sensed, as from a distance, while my animal mind felt every heave and thud. I tried to focus on where I was to run to - but my captors had hidden that from me, had starved every thought except for the desire for death from my mind. I saw shapes and emotions bloom in my mind's eye and could not connect with anything except the realisation that I was running into the jaws of death.
The runner, I saw, seemed to become stronger and fuller as we ran, over the hours gaining an orange tinge as the morning light began to filter through the trees. No light touched me; as I looked down I saw myself flickering over the trunks of trees stretched across my chest. Putting out my hands before my fading eyelids, I saw nothing but their darkness and the blue-green leaves beyond. Something strong and wonderful came over me - I felt for a moment bittersweet, or the tingling that comes between those tastes, like a lover's lips, or a sad and beautiful song. Trembling, into darkness falling, I saw the runner's features became sharp and pure in the morning light. A yearning tiredness spread over me, and I stopped, while he ran on towards whatever lay between the bright, clustered trees.
'Perhaps I will run with him tomorrow night'. I sank into the strange dead world, hearing my captors arrive beside me, and their words above me, kissing my shrinking face, I, smiling through their tears.