lighthouse

“I’m only human,” I apologised, “I don’t understand what you’re showing me.”

Music as mycelium – moving through me, around me in the darkness, slicing me into pieces. A black highway with blue filaments, undulating into infinity. Caught between dimpled glass and emerald spume, a galleon on surging seas, a ship in a bottled universe. Machines assembling themselves, overlaid with their blueprints, instructions I could take to change the world if only I could catch them. Music pouring from within me, the evolving scaffolding around which towering cities were forming, their spires punching holes in the spangled sky, the light of god pouring through, pathways to heaven. An endless apothecary’s cabinet of forms and creatures, centipedes and gyroscopes. Laughter – the only response to this, laughter as sacrament, given with respect.

There were lessons as the darkness crept back in, as my muscles twitched – wisdom and warmth that I could feel licking my skin – and a sad tale of a man who travelled for miles across mountains and through forests in search of a lighthouse. Greeted at the door, he made his way straight up the stairs and to the roof and flung himself off to his death, without a word or a backwards glance.