Loop-de-loop
Thinking alone without a clear purpose is weird to think about.
On the one hand it’s just brain exercise, the exhaust of an active mental energy with no definite outlet.
On the other hand it often makes me depressed.
Or nostalgic.
Fine line there.
Depression’s even weirder to think about,
because really those feelings are just trying to pull me back to the center.
The Source.
Love.
But in this weak body, in this troubled moment of time, I often confuse the Source for something physical.
It follows then that when my thoughts are idling negative exhaust fumes and I don’t know what to do, I masturbate.
Or eat.
Two nights ago while lying under four blankets I imagined the All-Beauty.
It stretched out above my head like a never-ending thought bubble.
Filled with the dark colors under my lids but with no discernible outline.
To illustrate abstractly:
The other day string theorists found a way to explain the lack of the the nine dimensions that the theory apparently presupposes.
It seems the other six are trapped in infinitesimal particles somewhere.
They got bullied and crowded out by dots, lines, and bodies in the free-for-all maelstrom that followed the big bang, or big membrane bounce, or big black hole ejaculation – the supernatural, Higgs particle disturbance.
Or whatever.
This endless beautiful thought bubble of mine was kind of like one of those other dimensions.
After I reeled in my night-time sense of it all I thought of you.
I imagined your face.
I had no idea what it looked like where you were of course.
I assumed you were sleeping. Bed, blankets, pillows, a ceiling, darkness.
Your face.
Then I took that blackish-purplish infinity and pushed it out in a spiritual wormhole.
To the cloud maidens and wind phantoms it must have looked like a roller-coaster of a solar coronal loop.
I rode that wormhole with not an ounce of my body.
Soon enough I whooshed into a giant loop-de-loop.
I thought I might not reach you, that my mind would just do a loop-de and come right back home.
But I rode it out like a weathered surfer and before I knew it you were awash with my spirit.
I was right. You were sleeping.
During those brief moments your face shimmered in the darkness like moonlight.
All that infinite beauty seeped under your eyelids.
Your eyelashes gently combed its subtle entrance.
How I wondered what you were dreaming!
I felt so strange being there, hovering amorphously around your cheeks.
Beyond innocent or impure.
It was a matter of beauty, of spiritual capability. Curiously following the mystical pathways I come across.
But in an instant I was pulled back into the wormhole.
In the middle of the loop-de-loop I tried to return, curling back and forth like a DJ’s fingers scratch a record,
but I second-guessed myself.
Maybe this kind of power shouldn’t be abused.
Like the strange, dark gateways people open in their souls with pornography or one-sided fantasies.
Maybe I should leave other souls be – find another way to soothe my restless curiosity.
So I returned back to my bed and sighed.
Alone, again.
Then, determined not to feel at all depressed, I ducked my head under the covers and quickly scratched the afghan my mom’s mom made for my mom.
Blue-white sparks popped and cracked so close about me, like lovers’ pre-dreaming whispers.
This is one of the many lovely perks of spending a winter on the tundra, where the cold air is dry enough to split the skin on your heels and knuckles. Fortuitously I had forgotten to use a drier sheet on all of my linens, so now I get to carve light shows out of the darkness under my blankets with my fingertips. And when my breath has moisturized the air and the blanket is out of static electricity, I pull my head out and return to my circuitous and fruitless thoughts. Ten minutes later the tundra will have refreshed all the magic.
I repeat this process until I fall asleep.