Black Paint Drippin
Extracted From The Portal. Possibly A (Time) Travel Journal.
Black boots hit the floor. I wasn’t sure how I felt. The truth: I didn’t.
Plop plop plop. Ink gushed from every lace hole and missing stitch.
If Jesus were to come back, he’d be born into an upper middle class family: not enough money to seem falsely godlike and just enough that every accomplishment would be doubted. It is always the nature of the masses to doubt the truth and the nature of doubt to poison the blessing.
As the black poured, I allowed. I had spent at least 7 years in the complete darkness. The small light that burns within nearly suffocated in every moment. Leeches hung from the body, and they sucked the light, the oxygen and the energy. They looted my temple. Pick axes plunged into the walls, tearing and searching for every last bit hidden inside the reservoirs within. Treasures from every life time taken. The wind smashing against my face. Never was I certain: was I falling or rising? I still do not know.
Everything I had now given. What to do with this shell? Had I purged or had I been robbed. Was this complete victory or ultimate defeat. How do we know. Full of energy and exhausted, I would wait.
It is gorgeous, how a soul can look like Black Paint Drippin. Clinging in the air. Mercury in time. Marvelous.