À mon bras votre bras poli
S'appuya (sur le fond ténébreux de mon âme
Ce souvenir n'est point pâli)
- Charles Baudelaire
There is a pulse and a hunger.
I am alive, whatever that means.
The smell of the rot has become an interesting sensation.
Hunger is always present, though I don't have a stomach I am now conscious that if I had nerves connecting to it they would be telling me to feed.
I could use a steak, though at this point i'd probably eat lard. Whenever I feel a bit less hungry I guess I am feeding. It is like an orgasm. I have never been so aware of how close survival and sex are, or how nice they both feel. There are countless others here, though I can't say much to them. This unity experience is addictive; talking to only one entity doesn't cut it.
Humans are a visual species.
This taste and smell thing is somewhat new to me, I keep trying to tell my eyes to open or my body to feel. Something replies every time.
'No, not that, that isn't there.'
I'm not giving up though, my entire existence was mapped out by my eyes, losing my sight means losing a part of who I am.
'You don't need that anymore, let go, let go.'
I'm not listening.
I figure I could connect this smell to my eyes and see what is going on, it works pretty well and soon I have a rough idea of my environment. The subtle differences of smell relate to differing consciousnesses. I color code them. I have a better sense of where I end now and almost feel able to move and give myself form. When I really flex against my limits there is a sense of dismay felt around me. The rot is not happy with my independence. I feel myself pressed from all sides; compacted.
My mind is filled with images of desolation, despair, destruction, digestion, disharmony. Nothing new there, but the feeling is so much stronger than any I have felt before. I'm tempted to form a shell around myself to ward off this feeling. But resist the temptation, a wall is just as good at keeping things in as keeping things out. Instead I think desperately of thoughts that bring my peace. My first love, soft fluffy animals, fresh air, cool water, warm sun.
Feed! is shouted back in reply, my images are acceptable as things to consume, but that is not my meaning.
I go to my memory palace, a place of my own will. I retreat there, aware I am still being observed.
Things are as I left them. Five tribes fight endlessly over one side of a disc. The other side is my garden. I go there. Soft mossy grass grows across it, covering the wide expanse as far as I wish it to. This is my sanctuary, my deepest, most safe place.
'Yes, good!' comes a voice.
'Grow!'
'Feed!'
'Spread!'
'Survive!'
I am at odds with this voice. It isn't covering every part of being alive. I think of diversity, of chaos, of the difference that makes life both possible and worth living.
I feel the rot recoil in horror. It is considering my commentary. I push and feel litter resistance. Around me the rot falls away. Its smells are a bouquet of difference, I discern more colors than I have ever tasted before. All moving independently with no purpose but to live. The hunger and growth cycle is over. The rot will survive, but not as the rot.
The rot has consumed all things, all things are in the rot.
The rot is dead, long live the rot.
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