The color of mud
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@d-pend
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The color of mud
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My mind is shut and eyes closed; something is awake beyond thought. Here's a tide-pool ocean in a simulation: flimsy water-colored giftpaper to the mind's touch yet deepening ever-dimensioned into solidity by the passage of space while time stands still. No sky no atmosphere only space beyond, purple-black, no stars no hue. The water's edges are removed by the custom-map video-game astral-editor and simulated pressure collapses in actuality. I flow through the riptide with a surge of dense fear-turned-exhilaration.

Faces morph and specify themselves the color of mud — with eyes that cast no shadow of memory; they have no light to speak of, candle-less dim cones that neither sear the surface of the moment nor singe the permanent life-scroll written and then locked away in some secret chest and buried. Still the radiant mahogany features live sometime, somewhen — under water and ground. Yet I am superterranean in essence, in my thoughtless feelingless glee.

Abruptly the smell of the world being new floods the room. I am in the room and the new-world-smell is on me. My mind is open and eyes closed; my name is the feeling of waves ebbing away from earth's grasp. The smell is primordial loam and petrichor and my thought is the color of mud.

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