By Markos Spyrides
How can I express in words the overwhelming expanse of the absence of feeling that I find myself in.
It’s not a void – just a massive nothingness that has neither beginning nor end, where cartesian coordinates are as choreographed as chaos; where gravity has taken leave, dragging along with it the up-and-down. In that kind of sensory blankness the body is unable to reference itself given the lack of perceptible points of reference that lie outside of it. The body is the reference. It becomes a reference unto itself, feeling itself to make sure that it is, for itself, real.
I find myself in a familiar place. The threshold between the vapours of a warm sea that obliterate my sinuses and the cracked remains of a salt plain whose womb has been robbed of its amniotic waters by the fireball that looms above. This place where the ocean never reach drowning depths, where waves only grow large enough to crash pathetically against half-erect sandcastles, yet crash nonetheless. Where pebbles never dare express themselves beyond hues of cool grey, and where even the once flesh-tearing blades of broken glass have been rounded to harmless blobs of misshapen emeralds.
This place where the wind rushes over mountainless land, unobstructed, blasting uncountable atoms at your being, yet never enough to carry away even the frailest of new-borns. It only carries your voice away, ripping it from your throat, leaving you with the most deafening of silences.
This beach of half-pebbles and of half-winds, of half-waves crashing onto half-castles built by half-people; of half-waters where you can only half-drown.
This beach of half-promises, where whimpers and whispers fade into one another in destructive superposition.
This is where I find myself, wondering whether I should rot on the salt plain for the fireball to feast on or fall off the horizon as I walk the sea in search of drowning waters.