From suffering, birds

July 30, 2014

Our hands agents of mercilessly, inextricably predetermined courses of fate, veins etched into the universe in the process of its inexplicable self-birthing from nothingness, inherent in its existence, veins through which the blood of events flow, confined to one and only one path which came into existence at the beginning; these paths are the ones along which our hands move as we wrest birds from our anguished breasts, which contorted along complex trajectories as we suffered our lives, the intricate shapes of the shifting muscular tracing the anatomy of a bird until it came into being and we tore it from inside of ourselves and our pain, thus transfigured, from sensation within us to bird taking wing, flooded the sky, incomprehensibly numerous—for great, after all, were our agonies—their superabundance blackening the sun a thousand times over, white-feathered bringers of an artificial night which gradually lessened as the birds continued their trajectory upward, growing less dense as they achieved impossible altitudes, until we lost sight of them and they were consumed in flames as they approached the all-seeing, nothing-comprehending red brilliance of the relentlessly burning sun.

Then we walked on an Earth made new by our liberation.

white_bird

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