novalunosis
“Be silent and listen: have you recognized your madness and do you admit it?”
Her dreams were of watercolors. Lipid pools of olive and bile green. Wait, they were pale blue and lavender. No, they were speckled with red and gold.
I’m trying to tell you that the surface appeared based on Her mood.
She climbed with a small bag strapped to her back. Her palms were wet from the condensation left on each metal rung. Her breath was the spark in the stale air. The ceiling was high though painted black. Fluorescent lights gave the room its shape and provided context for the guards watching all who entered.
Where is she? Right, I didn't tell you.
She was ascending the water slide; a long dark green snake that wove through the waterpark, creating its own maze. The guards were stationed three to a pool. The only place for no attendance was the waterslide. It was a tunnel no one could see through and a single light that flashed two colors at the slide’s summit.
Purple was for GO, and white was for WAIT.
She could hear children laughing and splashing in the Seven Pools. She dared not look down for fear of stasis. Spontaneity needed no spectators, so she watched her hands as they gripped each wet rung. As soon as you looked, the language was lost.
The girl saw lovers from her past when she looked into the darkness. Echos of her past lives are still hidden inside of herself. She was willing to go to the boundary of herself to rid of the unnecessary protection. She climbed higher to reach the darkness- that flat, black rooftop shielded the swimmers from the sun.
Those who entered the Seven Pools come in search of repose from the sun's glare. The place of great in-betweenness; the girl arrived with one thing in mind.
At the top of the waterslide, she stood alone. The light continued to flash, purple-white-purple-white-purple, in ten-second intervals. The girl felt for her bag, a plastic oval tied to her backside with a notebook and a pocket of stones.
The Seven Pools shuddered. The wave machine was on, and the waters rolled and rocked with the automated force. The twenty-four guards uncrossed their arms and placed each palm on a hip as they watched the swimmers bob in the simulated rhythm.
When culture meets nature, consciousness lurks in the instability of the dream. Did the swimmers realize that they were not real? Dreaming consciousness was the capacity to transfer identity through an object.
The girl pulled out the stones and set them in a line on the metal frame where she stood. Seven stones for the Seven Pools. She pulled out the sleeves of paper. She could not remember what she had written. It was a gamble, this task of drowning what she was to reconcile who she would become.
She wrapped a sheet of paper around one of the gems, repeating the process until all the sheets were used and the gemstones revealed no rough edges. Her words appeared as spirals. Cursive was a lost art form. The guards would not be able to read her inky secrets.
Placing the paper-rock parcels in her bag, she stood and set the bundle against her front. The light flashed purple; she sat down in the cold water at the mouth of the dark green snake and pushed herself in.
The boundary of experience presents something deeply destructive.
The girl wanted to bring rage into the world in a nurturing and collective way. As she sped through the tunnel, its dark crevasse opened as it navigated each of the Seven Pools. The waterslide had one entry and exit point, though small apertures appeared for the slider to peek out as it moved through the playground.
Each pool existed wholly unique from the next. The Seven Pools were not connected; one had to get out of the water and walk to the next level. The girl had to push herself up to her heels, grab a stone, and toss it into the pool as the slide moved past and shifted from its tunnel form to a topless flume.
Freedom is defined by defiance.
Careful to avoid hitting the children, the girl carefully tossed the rocks into the Seven Pools. By the seventh stone, the water of the first pool was gone- the pool was completely absorbed by the paper wrapped tightly to the rock. No guards witnessed the transgression of boundaries.
As the girl slithered through the cave toward the end of the slide, she heard screams. There was no dignity in the birthing process, especially when caught off guard. She knew the children would arrive, naked and cold, into the Mothers' hands at the White Palace. Thrust from the reassuring waters into the harsh reality of being.
The light at the end of the tunnel presented the girl with the same decisions she made with every visit. Would she strip and leave her clothing in the waters, or would she allow herself to keep some semblance of who she was as she reentered the White Palace?
Identity was a fickle thing. The other Womb-Releasers always stripped, keeping nothing of themselves. Many were like the children, without a memory, lacking the resonance of the past, and so repeated themselves.
To hold onto what she had would result in punishment. Only the Mother and her Guides were allowed to hold the sacred stones and cloth. Context was sacred, and secrets spilled into the leather and lace. The girl's bag had been torn, stained, and resewn. Where her skin was scar free, the bag told the stories of her past lives.
She would bear the penalty.
Thrust from the Seven Pools, the girl rose from the watercolors with her ratty satchel strapped tight to her waist.
Photo source.
