Passage

15

-

Hello.

Woah.

It’s dark here.

Here…wait. Where is here? I’m not sure.

Okay. Think. Think for a second. Get your bearings.

Hmmm. What was I just doing before that wave of consciousness?

Ah, I don’t know. At least, I can’t remember.

Maybe I have been here before? Maybe not? Maybe I do know this eerie darkness.

19

-

So.

I don’t remember anything. Or exactly when I noticed that I was, well, here. Perhaps I’ve been here a while. I mean, I know I’m here, I know I exist because I’m thinking, aren’t I? So surely that counts for something, right?

Nonetheless, it’s still very dark here. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.

I sense darkness. Maybe I am seeing darkness, maybe I am feeling darkness, but it’s here. Darkness is all around me and it’s all I’ve ever known.

22

-

I think it must be just me here, In this dark place. Just me, whoever I am. I am alone.

25

-

It may be dark here, but it’s certainly not quiet.

I try to rest, you see. When the darkness gets too much, I just try to stop and drift. But the problem is – perhaps problem is the wrong word – it’s very difficult to just drift and “be” when you have a palpitation disturbing the peace. Even when I feel calm and unbothered by the darkness, the palpitation isn’t. It just thumps, and pounds and thuds. It’s getting louder and stronger and…yes yes I know its attached to me and yes it’s a part of me but… it’s just so…erratic.

Perhaps I will just have to find a way to drift in harmony with it. Because I am certain now - I am all alone here, and it seems like that is not going to change any time soon.

So go ahead. Do your thing, thumping noisy palpitation.

Go ahead and keep me company. Because let’s be honest - you’re

the only thing keeping me going right now.

26

-

Another wave of consciousness.

Something else has changed.

A new noise.

You.

I hear you.

Not right here with me, but close. I hear you. At some point, I realized, that you are actually many noises, competing with my own. But I have decided that all of your noises are good. They are comforting and they tell me somehow that I am safe. I have learnt that your sounds mean everything is fine. Everything, including me, is functioning.

My palpitating friend has dominated my space up until now. It has had my attention for so long.

But now, something has changed and I hear you.

And you, you have changed everything. You have my attention.

30

-

I drift in this space I’ve resigned to call a home, sleepy, then stirring at the sound of you.

Most times you are distant and faint, but when you are present, when you are attentive to me; you are vibrant and tender.

When you come knocking at my door, I try to seek you in this dark. I can’t see you; I really wish I could, but I can feel you investigating, and you call out to me.

At your sound, I listen. You bring life to this dark lonely chamber. You make this palpitation flutter; did you know that? And when your vibrant tender sound – I believe it’s called a voice – resounds through my air, I feel a connection. A connection that’s deeper than the ties that moves me when you move, and nourishes me when you nourish. It’s a connection that assures me that I do exist.

I am here. But who am I?

“You are mine”; your voice tells me so.

33

-

We’ve been together for a while now, haven’t we? And still, we have not met.

But you know what? I think I am a lot like you. Yes, that’s right. I hope that makes you happy.

When will I meet you? you sigh often to me and I feel your hand press against my home.

My answer to you is soon. For I am becoming irritable being here. I am impatient like you. Soon, I promise you.

36

-

I feel sad that you have become so distressed; you are growing more and more distressed. I try to comfort you, to let you know that I’m here and that I hear you; your heavy sounds stir me. But you only wince at my hello. I’m sorry. I wish I could communicate like you do.

I want you to show me. I am a lot like you. And I hope, I really hope I will sound like you too.

Okay so most times I hope to sound like you (when you’re not yelling that your back hurts or your feet are swollen or you can barely sleep) I love it most when your voice is heightened, when you are singing. But I understand you do not agree. Why do you say you sound like a strangled cat? I don't know exactly what a strangled cat sounds like, but to me your song is sweet. Do you know how many times I have stayed awake, how many times I have fought sleep just to hear you sing? Ah, the way your lungs and body swells and the vibrations ripple through my shadowy space. Now that I am older and wiser, the whooshing sounds of my own home are nauseating and repetitive. But when you sing! Please don’t stop singing to me. I don’t need those meditation hums, rock and roll and especially not that racket that you call a washing machine. Just you- just your singing voice. I wish I could talk to you the way you talk to me; I wish you could see me, hold me. I want you to smile the way I smile at you.

38

-

I’ve been waiting, with my arms folded. But things have changed, what is happening where you are? I’m ready but I understand you are not. Not anymore. I thought you really wanted to meet me.

I am impatient, I thought you were too. But I hear you say with your distant and faint voice “I can’t do this”. You confuse me. What has changed? I somersaulted for you the other day, as best as I could now that the roof of this chamber is caving in.

Look, look do you feel me? I am standing on my head for you, just to show you that I am ready. But you are not. I want to come, but I want to be wanted too. I miss your singing voice; it’s been too long.

40(+4)

-

Hello.

Are you there?

This place is too small, too crowded now. Your crying shakes me. Why don’t you get up, why don't you get out of bed anymore? I hear you. You bargain with the one who you say made you. On your knees, you suppress me; you may not realize, but your kneeling is not helping. The pressure, the squeezing. Have you forgotten me?

I’m trying so hard to stay put; I’m trying to be patient for you.

But my house is constricting. I need a new home; to stretch and be. The darkness is feeling heavy again. But it can’t and won’t hold me forever.

So, I try drifting. I try stopping. In the absence of your sounds, the assurance of your vibrant tender voice, the thumping noisy palpitation – my fully grown heart – slows.

41

-

Suddenly.

A new noise.

You? Is that you?

Wait, no. Something is happening. Something else is happening. Something different. What is that?

I’m here. In the dark. Buried. Cocooned. Stifled. Stuck. Struggling.

Okay. Think. Think for a second. Get your bearings.

But then, another suddenly.

The pressure around me releases. The walls break and cave in. The sac shrivels.

And I come.

I come out. Rescued from that lonely darkness and into…marvelous blinding light.

And as I hear your voice resounding through the new air, you assure me that you’ve been here with me all along. You never left; I was never alone.

“You're here! I’m here, baby. I'm here”

And at the sound of your voice, I know it’s finally time to share mine.

And I cry. 

"...For you are {..} chosen...He called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light..." 1 Peter 2:9