The Call
The call— makes no sense.Feels like an amporphous blob in your left field of vision,sings sweetly and terrifyingly in your dreams,sends shivers down your spine.Makes an empty hole of your belly.Is the invisible third.Doesn’t promise health insurance.Demands your soul.Moves your body like dancing, eyes closed in a crowded room,fills every empty hole with meaning,deadens everything else in your life,gives life where life was gone.Blows a breeze through the limbs of your trees,bursts through the dams of your heart,feels like cotton in your ears.Asks you to move outside the village, andinitiates you into a village so expansive it fills the whole of the cosmos.Slays lovers and dreams.Strips you naked—and strips every delusion.Makes white black and black white.Spirals.Sings.Sobs.Aches—oh, the ache. The call— is a siren song so seductive that you cannot follow any other song—forevermore.It is the song of death. (and shhhh… of resurrection).
