TEMPLE HQ
THIS DREAM AGAIN, DEJA VU!
1-30-2022
What they call “worms” as the intestinal lining is shed by the drugs, shorn off in long thin strips of flesh, fleshy like bright red leather, flaking to sink, slowly dissolving in the toilet water, into that black void at the bottom of the porcelain bowl. I’m laying on my back and falling as that red overtakes my vision, crawling in from the sides, red strands like angry grass stretching over the receding white light and enveloping darkness as I fall into the pit.
“Where am I?”
I’m laying on a cold ground and look about me to nowhere, to nothing.
“Where am I?”
“You know who I am?” He asks. I’ve seen him - no, it. That sigil floating about the spectrezone at the corner of my peripheral always. I draw his face onto the paper and burn it, still doesn’t purge, elusive. It’s laughing and always there. It can’t speak or laugh, has no face but the geometry of its body. It knows me better than anything.
“You’re in Hell. What did you expect?”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Hell. What did you expect?”
And soon the dark goes red and I look back to see the walls falling apart text falling off the bricks sloughing meaning as the whole castle falls to pieces around me, new walls erected, and the world is reformed again and again. A demonic intelligence is running devilish tricks all around me, as the walls fall away only to rebuild anew in their place, new walls, new castles. I’m again and again, waking up in a brand new prison, with brand new gaolers, with brand new cellmates. Every lifetime, every turn of the wheel, and the prison is unchanged. Bright red, saturnine greyblack, the white of bone and snow and freezing to death in a tundra as the wind strips me clean and I’m alive to the very bitter, bitter end, looking in vain my useless body grasping towards the sun, mocking me, a vision of warmth that is not, will never be.
“You’re in Hell. What did you expect?”
Of course I”m back to the sigil again. Of course I’m back in the dark and the walls are there like every lifetime repeating itself and the memories inscribed on each new brick, and repetitions, alternate playthroughs, timelines going through every last possibility - and all of it in conspiracy. All of it in constant recreation of the same. Templates remain the same as new memories are inscribed on the bricks again and again. I’m in Hell like that. Where am I? What else could I expect. The sigil is governing, a template below it all as I make the same sins over and over, the same cycles of the same guilt. The demon knows my name, because what else is there to the soul, but that repetition? That I should be damned, what would I be but the same which I had left above, but the pattern that was there before I, and shall be after I? That shall always be the same I recreating the same old sins, the same old mistakes, the same old life.
“Where am I?” As I’m in a new country, a new face - “You’re in Hell. What did you expect?” And I watch him make all the same mistakes. And I watch him take the same path with new proper nouns on the roadsigns. I watch him die and fall down the same pit and I watch him lay where I’m laying. And I watch them countlessly like this - lifetime after lifetime of one sin, one sigil, one demon, one soul.
“Who told you there was more? Who lied to you?” The sigil was asking me in the darkness without name, mercifully without sight. “Who made you think it would be anything what you’ve always known it was, always known it is?”