hyacinth-blue and the green squelch of soil. sunlight streams into every crack of bark and blade. hands warm and sticky, feet bare and cold. i move forward, rocky perspective, fragments of the future/past/future/present/future again. gliding, barely touching the ground then tile.
my vision teeters on the edge of a great crack, stained glass subdivisions dappling images of new planes. i stand in the cathedral alone. with god, of course, but alone. what's in that hole? i can't see.
do you know what it means? i don't. my hands are like pages rubbing against one another when i put my hands up like this. i am the confessional. saunter to the podium, get a good look at the angels peeking in through the windows.
i am the confessional. me like the priest, me like the pope. our finale consists of a man - only a man - who makes these walls sacred. but surely, you all know that. he says the kingdom was built on a rock and sand. he tells these stories of a great king, for he is there to promote the myth. but have you seen him?
he always slips out of the picture at just the right moment. its natural of course, waiting for the king. sometimes i slip out of the picture too, and i can't remember why. he tells me look at me, and i don't remember. the natural order of things, crimson hues sprouting across the sky. i ask him why we don't do it all over again. he doesn't reply.
i never really get a look at god, so i never quite understand his laws.
but as i was saying, the cathedral could burn with the king inside it you know. we'd never find out. the king doesn't tell the man these things, after all. that would remove the mystery. so i ask him "do you think god is listening?" and he never answers.
the power of the king is his ability to disappear from the narrative whenever he wants, pressing the sieve into my chest as he rushes off.
i see it in fractures, the land changes, it happens all at once. we are all moving at the same time, you me him do it again, you me him do it again, you me him do it again and so on so forth in an eternal dance opening into a sea of darkness. so thats why we dont, i guess. the rule is that the rule is that the rule is, well - it never ends.
and so the king makes sure his laws do the same. disappear, that is. is that why we die? certainly, at the right time. lush green growth echoes into glass, and i try to get a good look.
i wait for the sand to rebuild the temple into a cathedral, and the king will show up before the man ever does. the king will get sick of waiting and set about drafting and legislating and the man will be too late to make any changes.
time will slow to a halt so that i can break the first one. why did you do that!!! he will scream, apoplectic. the man! the man! and he'll go running off again. once more, i lose my memory in the sand. the man - i am - will tell me stories in the end, and my role is to feel horrible.
i made a grave mistake, coming here, doing all this, writing a rule that makes me the fool.
but in the end - all that will be left is the sand, the rock, and the trio moving like a timeless clock. set on a precise journey forced like marionettes to write rules and then lose them again.
you know, i've never quite gotten a good look at god.
