On the Other Side of Consciousness

Art by: Pride Nyasha 

I wanted to not write happy things. To not grow or move on or wish for anything. I wanted to lay down in a field and let the blue and purple flowers overcome me. To let their tender, fragrant petals push gently through muscle and vein as though I were a giving patch of Earth like any other.

I did not want to be great or good. I did not wish to face my past, to rise to the future or to even seize the moment. I wanted nothing to do with any kind of time-keeping. I wanted to rip out all my connections to the world and stuff all the ports, the cable access points with pale blue flowers. I wanted to turn off the gravity switch for all the thoughts orbiting around my head. I wanted to run away from destiny, to erase all the lines carved in my palms and all the scars I had earned. I would not have hesitated to slice any red thread that dangled from my finger with the same scissors still gleaming with strands of my hair. I wanted to not chase truths or mysteries. To not be bound to anything but my heartbeats, my breaths.

All I wanted was to lie down. To be, in the simplest form. I needed time to be with myself. Myself, not the voices. Not the part claimed by rising smoke. Nor the one filled with emptiness. When that happens, when I am with myself, when our silences align, there is nothing left. No plans, no voices. Not even poetry or music. Only the Earth, the flowers and I travelling around the sun.

Only the flowers blooming through my lungs remain, only the petals intertwined with my lashes, blossoming in my breath. Distantly, my fingers ran through the softness of the earth the way hands sift through a loved one’s hair. And when I held it, felt it in my palms, it was rich and consistent and true.

I wanted to paint myself the colour of Earth, but realising I already was, I dipped the paintbrush in wintry blues and pale purples, watching gardens slowly grow on my skin.


Starry Complexities

“We could whisper to the stars and tell them what happened to other stars, billions of years ago, tell them how they shattered and turned into people. Do you wonder if stars tell their children that when you die, you become a human? A faraway life, on a small blue planet. “

Art by: LuviiiLove

I can already imagine it, with starry complexity. We will linger at the space station, floating around to haunting piano music softly diffusing across the universe, echoing down lonely black holes and asteroid fields. We’ll hang the clothes to dry on one of Saturn’s rings. On Saturdays (Or however we decide to name it) we’ll have barbecues on the sun and plant artificial roses on dwarf planets and dying stars for a pilot whose plane has crashed to find someday. We’ll pluck stars from space and rearrange the cosmos, play tennis with asteroids and write messages with our fingers across nebulae for Earth to see.

We can hide on the moon, sometime. Lie down in the sea of tranquility and tell corny jokes about how we aimed for the moon. We can close our eyes and move to the dark side, and pretend Earth doesn’t exist. We’ll live out our days in an alcove on a planet no one will ever discover.

We’ll make paperboats, watch them sail and burn in a constellation of stars. We could even reach inside one of them, our hands travelling all the way to the molten core, and touch someone’s consciousness. We could whisper to the stars and tell them what happened to other stars, billions of years ago, tell them how they shattered and turned into people. Do you wonder if stars tell their children that when you die, you become a human? A faraway life, on a small blue planet. So, children if you want to say hi, all you have to do is shine bright and they will know who you are? I wonder if humans are star-ghosts?

We could also hollow out one of the planets, and make home inside.

Trust me, we will never get lost. I have the universe inside of me. Did you know that there are more synapses in the human brain than there are stars in our Milky Way? And there are more possible brain connectivity patterns than there are atoms in the Universe? Our minds are larger and more infinite than the Universe. We are multitudes, eternal matter in perishable bodies.

“When we die,” you ask “do you think we go back to being stars? Do you think that some part of us goes into space? Like, the parts that used to be our eyes, when they rot and become dirt and minerals in the Earth, then feed a tree that later gets turned into wood brought on a spaceship—do you think I could see the universe then? Do you think I could get to be a part of it then? That I will be welcomed, like a missing limb, and I will finally remember? And slowly, like that, the Universe will start being whole again.”

“But you’ll forget me then, you’ll forget Earth.” I say.

“Not if you come with me.” you smile “Then we’ll forget about the lives we had here. But it’s okay, because you and I, we go way back, we were stars together. Then, we can remember who we were meant to be all along.”

Listening to:

Note: This is Day 25 of my NaNoWriMo Writing Challenge. I’m afraid with this one, I totally pretended like Science wasn’t a real thing. Don’t shove your hands down molten cores of stars, kids. You’ll be dead before you even get to try. You can read my previous entry for the challenge here. Also, ‘more infinite’ isn’t…really a thing. But eh, dramatics amirite.