“Maxwell,” it spoke, “are you ready?“
Eyes open now, startled to wake by not the sound rather the sensation of this voice; the self unspirling must’ve been a consequence of this dream for on July 4th, 2014 Maxwell had woken completely sober. He felt his day intoxicating from dawn into a set of crepuscular fireworks fornicating with the stars and impregnating each fabulous flash of skyline fire expounding into the simultaneous birthing of what Maxwell named in a whisper, “shadow flies.” Just slight tears or tears across the motley conflagration of an instant in the out-landing spatters of each explosion, like a smashed ink bottle or what the big bang would look like in slow motion, each dripping comma of colored fire turned negative in his eyes and became a myriad whirling dervish of black phosphenes.
He breathed the sulfur fragrant air only a half lung full and closed his eyes to breathe deeper. The scent shifted with his eyes closed until the air smelled like his mother – in liquid form. Until each sound shifted and each firework, each laugh and awe muffled echoically, submerged, within a world underwater.
A fuse lit beneath a new mortar and…
…eyes open, and following, following, following, the amber ascending quick and watching as fast as he could; slower now silenced into the third POP.
For that moment imagine this shadow fly contrasted against a now pitch night sky hesitating – suspended in a leap of faith and waiting it’s inevitable expansion amidst the void like some galactic taraxacum frozen in a pose in which apomixis is paused for introspection.
His eyes closed again – every sound spoke to him in the language of hidden distances where every cry is never guaranteed to return the echo. Where every scream, however, is guaranteed to sound like a secret being buried in a pillow. And with his lungs re-acclimating to respiring fluid; eyes closed with a glow the way wax illuminates outward the fire within – he is guaranteed a screaming choir cacophonous in the hidden distances where his every cry is guaranteed to go silenced, without reciprocation, without echo – for he is her fire and she his wax..
Eyes up and poised through the still grey cloud memory still redolent in form of the fireworks prior and pausing again…
Sprawling slowly to open a collapsed Promethean fist reaching instead with his palm to embrace us all and opening slower; slower now…
Slower still and emerging in a low tone whisper with an accent regional only to the Planck Epoch and the sounding of vocal folds formed from the collision of glaciers – echoing through eons of light years and years and years yawning in a panoptic gaping sky-lengthed maw.
“Maxwell,” it spoke (though speaking wasn’t the right word, more – it’s simply conveyed. Moreover Maxwell simply inferred; the way the mouth conveys fear unanimously the same way regardless of the language speaks).
“Each stitch and instant, pitch and object, twitch and experience encountered, manifested, phenomenalized unanimously contains with in its essence the vestige of the Planck Epoch. Regardless of the acceptance for or the rejection of this claim is in no way different for to experience either is to experience the other.”
Eyes down, closed now – “I am the flame within” Maxwell thought, more, without any basis for spoken language he simply felt, “the wax of my mother.“
“Silenced” he inferred, “without an echo, a screaming fire buried within a sacred being and suspended against a now pitch night,” keeping his eyes closed to breathe and feeling himself drunk on liquor amnii, “I am the fuse lit beneath a world underwater.”
Eyes closed, the mother warmth of womb enveloping him and yet from within, he hears a voice now echoing off of her diaphragm. It spoke again – shot – from the Epoch, “Maxwell,” in and intimated whisper, “here is also neither separate from neither firework nor Epoch nor distant from eyes either open or closed. This is what you have named ‘The Simultaneous Birthing’ what you have felt as slight tears or tears in your whisper… Maxwell, are you ready? The consequence of all of this…” is silenced into the fourth
Eyes startled open and downward – a trailing fire tailing beneath him like an umbilical chord to the river below he froze – fetal – soft now, peace. “For that moment,” it continued, now even with his eyes and heart open, lungs open to air, the voice became endemic to each of Maxwell’s senses, “you’ve become yourself enwombed and suspended against a now pitch night – are you ready? As cause and effect are a single occurrence – all of this ends in the self unspirling now… Maxwell… Unspiral…“
If a spiral were to uncoil – imagine first it becoming a straight line…
Maxwell poised in purposeful Tadasana and extended, stretched across an impossibly straight path from Planck’s Epoch to this moment, the moment when and where you are reading this, to the right now instant where this is being read to you.
“All are the single pathway to cosmic conception.”
He thought of the timelessly accurate pathway through All That Is when the voice whispered, “this is what you have named ‘Tadasanall.’“
Imagine second the backwards recoil where to unspiral is to spiral again back within (a distance and shape the human form is not built to withstand) and knowing (more intuited via the vox semperviva) eyes closed and “breathe Maxwell, swallow with your lungs.” In that instant what once smelled maternal turned eternal in a collection of unfamiliar scattered stimuli, “this is what you have named ‘Time’s Scentuary,’” Maxwell gleaned.
And now, stopping again – the sensual pull of his elastic self esemplastic to the universe.
Stretching thin the pull string run slack.
Strengthless in the conviction of pulling again, back, pulling farther until peaked…
“Maxwell, I’m going to let go now… Don’t hold on… Don’t prepare… Just let go…” It spoke clearly now, “LET GO!“
And starting off with a sonic booming self Maxwell traversed eons in moments. As abruptly as the geyser cause of his travels turned the river to rainfall he paused first to listen to the core of earth and second, pausing longer still, to become centered in the Pangea equivalent of the Milky Way Galaxy, “no time, only void,” he’d thought, “no space, only Self. Unspiraled, recoiled in a mass of broken particles vast and sifting out of existence” until he, Maxwell (motionless and without form) now knowing only the Epoch; he has become nameless.
He has become a creature without the penance of history.
Knowing no self, knowing not even the void – scattered like pointillism into vanishing.
Detritus no more.
No trace of universe.