The DM13 Journal
I arrived at a fork in the road, and paused while I contemplated My course of direction. In that flickering moment, My consciousness became the conduit to My soul.
I was present of mind, present of spirit, and I awakened to a latent dimension of attention and focus–artillery that detonated and thundered across the cryptic terrain of My cognition.
I focused My attention upon the opaqueness of My thoughts, marched upon the gates of self-overcoming, and besieged the citadel of My mind.
The Ancient Smaze that had been the miasma of so many in Our realm, enshrouded everything in Its dominion. None in Its path was spared Its muddle. But I was restless, and had cultivated survival techniques to walk deliberately, through the dread and gloom of Its obscurity.
At times, I would stop and feel for the outstretched tentacles of nearby dead trees to reorient My physical and spiritual bearing. A cluster of timbered sherpa corpses helped Me along the path toward My next destination, and I never wavered in deliberateness of step.
Closer and closer I walked, closer I walked on the trail toward the rim of My numbed despair. Her gaze transfixed on Me, and Mine on hers.
I was approaching the boundaries of those familiar feelings that had desiccated months ago–back when I could still feel the moisture of My fresh diagnoses on My cheeks.
But I was devoid of fear because I had already died a hundred times in the depths of My idleness–envisioning how My ashes would scatter in the cool ocean breeze of the Pacific, sublimely, and the looks of grief on all the passengers on that sunlit deck–on afternoons when I lied in bed with closed eyes, aching knees, and swollen hope.
I emerge out of the miasma of your nostalgia. Do not be afraid.
I come to replenish your ardent ocelot with the sweet milk it craves. My spermal benefactions delight, almost as much as it deprives in its absence.
Drink.
