Through Formlessness
I am the architect of my own incarnation. My body is a machine born to build itself.
Since before I chewed myself free from soft-sided egg, I held the blueprints within me. And when the chewing and the hunger are done, when I have consumed all that will become me, I come to the time of my second encasing.
My body holds all I need. I provide my own thread. I weave it.
I weave and I watch the sky signs. They keep me company in my time of loneliness. I look in them for the path to my dreams. The fragile path of memory. A slender thread of continuity to keep the seed of the something I am within and through the void to what I will become.
I weave myself fully within the softness, within the matchless splendour of my spherocylinder of knotted-netted gossamer. I take one last look at the night whose eyes are too many to count though I have tried. The biggest of these watches me with its unwavering gaze until the last thread encloses me.
My cocoon is my cocoon, within everything without, which isn’t my cocoon. I am in me. I am in my own womb. I am the amnion.
Safe within myself, I dissolve. I slip into the places between my cells. My thoughts become flowing, viscous, hazy. My mind remains suspended on an invisible string within the pulsing currents.
I am the building blocks of life. I am the water of birth, and I am with all waters which have come before and flow through us.
Us? Where did we all come from?
I am where I become us. It’s what the winking night whispered. We wait for a spark.
“Sky!” we call. “Sky! Are you listening?”
Our waters across time remember becoming. The waters tell us stories.
We are yolk. We are blood. We are saliva. We are ocean. We are muck.
We flow. We seep. We rush.
We are in the veins. We are in the rivers. We are in the eggs and bellies and fruits. We are in the animals and plants and insects.
Proteins. Vitamins. Minerals. Fats. Sugar. Nucleotides. Enzymes.
Sky answers with a flash.
Imaginal discs.
I check the records. I? Where have you all gone?
I check the schematic. I construct my geometries. I sculpt my curvatures. I am almost through it.
Through formlessness.
This story is a part of the TunnelBridge cycle of stories.
Also see TunnelBridge