A Story in three Acts
The water lies black and silent. So do I.
My hand encloses an empty vessel.
I reach out and immerse it into the cold.
When I lift it, it is not empty anymore.
A distilled essence of the dark.
As black as it‘s source.
An alien body, a distorted mirror.
The pure emerged from the tainted.
The hand I hold it with is cold.
It is like making a pearl.
Something forces itself into the shell you protect yourself with.
Either you shed the foreign skin or you devour it, embed it,
grow your flesh around it, enlarge your body
until it breaks.
An imprint will be all that is left of me.
When I face the mirror, I stop recognizing myself.
Then I am, and I stop being.
When no action, no distraction is left to keep myself from being conscious,
I feel as if the world would tilt.