29 February 2016

Postcard 52

"When you go out, are you pretending to be someone else?" "I'm always pretending to be something else."
The more I approach the true me, the greater the void of true me becomes -- a central emptiness, gravity without mass, light and heat emanating without a source. I'm a black star. All the me's that I pretend shoot out like wavelengths, complimenting or clashing, overlapping or tangential. Some are comfortable and easily slipped into. Comfortable and grasping. Some are stiff and formal, cool and easy, fun or necessary, kicked off with relief like work-boots at the end of the day. I am called all these things, but I am none of them. I am the intersection where they all vanish. I am the dark of the cliff they drop into slumber from. 
When I am terrified, I grasp at one or another, or I plunge some person or thing or identity of self, or some idea of God into the void, and it tightens up and fills, but snaps back. It is insatiable, this self, of others.
But, if I push all that away (with affection), the banks fall off and the masslessness expands. There are no horizons. I float and I expand empty to the blank self that is true. The many selves are distant, bright and comforting like a clear night sky. All the others are shoreline I don't need; I have gills.
I'm a blackstar. Not a father, not a carpenter, not a lover, not a man, not a thinker, not a writer. I'm a blackstar.

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