Автор: stranger
Дата: 08-06-04 21:50
Attracted to Light
Light is power, knowledge, it is what we want, it is what we need, it is satisfaction, fulfillment, truth, and purity. It is history, the future, and spirituality. Light is what we fear and hate. Light is what controls every decision and action we take. Light is thought. Light has gravity, light is what attracts us. Light implies, necessitates, darkness – the shadow created by anything physical. But black is not only the lack of light, black is also the complete absorption of light. A black hole is nothing and everything. Black is the void and reservoir of what we want and need, what controls us. We are what controls us, because what controls us defines us. The light is us.
Moths exist in a shadow world, in the day hiding and sleeping under the fallen leaves. At night, feeling safe in the emptiness of the shadow of the earth, they come out to live their lives.
And within the black void is the reservoir of light.
On an oppressively hot night, I am on the shore of a reservoir in upstate New York, black as ink. I hesitate to jump in. I breathe a little faster and my heart beats a little harder when I do. Aware of the sensation all over my body, dripping off my chin, rushing past my arms, legs, fingers as I keep my head above.
In the darkness the air bonds with the water not like in the day. There is emptiness all around me. Everything is invisible. This reservoir (also) is a void.
When I let go I float in the middle, rising and sinking a little with each breath, I notice that I am black and invisible; spread everywhere into this blackness. I am the blackness of the shadow of the earth.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, I start to see light, only a little.
Surrounded by blackness, moths are attracted to light. No one understands why. It’s neither to mate nor to eat: many moths don’t eat at all, some even don’t have mouths. Like butterflies, moths are almost as light as air, but they are the poor stupid cousins. Choosing to live their lives at night, flying from nowhere towards the end of their lives, their fragile dusty wings in tatters, are our wings. A moth will bounce across a ceiling, orbit a lamp, fly into a flame. A moth will bash its brain in to get to light or self-immolate like a Buddhist monk – burnt to a cinder of pure carbon.
I don’t have to think about it, there is no choice. When the sun goes down I rise. A breath of air, my legs dangle. The complete absorption of light is the black of my eyes, endlessly swallowing and always empty, it’s never enough to shine back out.
Mike & Doug Starn
Публикацията е редактирана (09-06-04 01:29)
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