THE WHITE HOLE

It was yesterday, that impulse, just a gasp, which interrupts sleep. My thoughts open up, and the muse calls, softly, emphatic, irresistible.

While I embrace the new day with the night howling at my side, I find traces of color, on my hands, recent, between the lines of the knowledge of pain in time, which passes. The path of experience.

My systems of coherence and logical justice still have feet in the equilibrium, but the body juts out; it hangs over the void, over errant souls motley in color, and I point out the goal.

The worldly exit offers limited access, between overlapping worlds, the journey of pain, the conscience, the light.

Too many points of access denied, gravity holds onto us and does not allow flight, a constant reminder of the human condition.

And I break with the material, traditions and perspectives, each remnant, convention. With an unrelenting pace, I reveal the deception.

 The new door, the white hole, new words and every medium. I trace the keys and the codes, and the alternative dimensions declare themselves possible, and that which was, no longer is; the field is made rich.

The spaces and the walls collapse, while deceptions, errors and questions remain impossible, the source of shudders.

And while I write, human solitude seizes me, companion of my journey, but that was yesterday.