the arithmetics of mass and spirit
It was my letting go that gave me a better hold.
― Chris Matakas
Raven
It's a calm, early Sunday afternoon, the heat slowly growing with each hour, a slight breeze stirring the air and causing a few mischievous strands of hair to shift and tickle her face and neck, while the rest of it is pinned up, in a messy bun on top of her head. She's sitting in the back garden on the luscious green grass with her legs crossed, palms of her hands lifted up and resting on the knees, eyes closed, and with a small pillow strategically placed beneath her. No point in suffering for the spiritual side of it - she thinks, eyelids shutting tighter in concentration as she tries to meditate, the body loudly protesting against her lousy attempts at a lotus flower position. Her breathing is still uneven, energy flickering from side to side as she imagines the perfect state of nirvana, willing it to somehow, rush the peaceful heavenly calm her way. Pronto. Hmm, though she wasn't getting much results so far, almost two hours in this position, and all that she had accomplished were a slight backache, tensed shoulders, sweat soaking the few skimpy clothes she had on, and multiple bites from every buzzing life form with or without wings. Yeah, they all loved her equally.
So, do you hear that, world?
Are you listening carefully enough?
Once again, a full victory in my pathetic, miserable existence. She groans, attempting to, no matter what, stay positive like she promised Mel and to "trust the process". Well, it sure wasn't trust yet, that was certain, but at least she was making an effort and giving her best. Sometimes it was all you could do before anything could change for the better. Trust the process. She inhales deeper and forces herself not to groan again as she feels another tiny bite on her body, this time on her ass. Of course.
It's her usual time off since the restaurant was usually closed on Sundays, with a few acceptions such as wedding receptions, kids' birthday parties, charity events, and so on. Whenever that happened everyone's day off would automatically shift to Monday. Mel was a considerate boss and never forced her employees to work the entire week, plus making sure the shifts would have elastic hours if necessary, knowing that rest was just as important in life as some good old-fashion hard labor. And that was just one of her great traits on a very long list, so it wasn't exactly a shock how much she looked up to that woman and always silently looked for her guidance and a caring shoulder to cry on. She sighs again. It would have been nice to actually have some blood-related siblings like that, and not to always depend mostly on herself. Because as much as she enjoyed her independence and the stubborn, strong character that she was born with, she still yearned for someone to share the worries and troubles of the day.
Strange, even though she was an only child, somehow she always felt as if she should have been a part of some big family. As if someone made a mistake and sent her into the wrong life. Wrong time, wrong people, wrong energy. Energy? She wonders. Why did she suddenly come up with that last one? Okay, it was official then. Her state was getting worse, and Mel's spiritual crap was messing with her mind. She didn't need all that nonsense. Soul awakening, please. Spare me. She thinks but then stops herself, flinching just a bit, guilt spreading in her with the speed of light. That wasn't fair. Her friend was doing the best that she possibly could for her, giving the time, knowledge, and limitless amounts of care and kindness. It wasn't Mel's fault that she was such a screwup, and everything she touched somehow eventually ended in disasters. No, definitely not.
She inhales deeper through her nose and slowly exhales through the mouth, just like she was instructed to, repeating the exercise several times for good measure. Breathing can cause wonders for the mind and spirit, Ray. Just listen to your own body and what it is telling you. Do not push anything away, no matter how much you want to run away from it. The words fill her thoughts, and she manages to calm down a bit, even though she knows the serene state was only temporary. Something entirely different brewing under the surface and clawing for her attention, scratching at the muscles, chewing at the mind. Soul termites. She smirks in a nasty way but then takes in another deep breath, not liking her mood swing whiplash lately. She didn't feel herself much these days. In and out, Ray. In and out. Slowly. She repeats the instructions, and for a few moments, regains some peace. But it snaps again quickly like a rubber band, leaving an invisible red line on her body and making her hiss. Shit. She curses through clenched teeth and tries again but knows there is a blockage somewhere in her, tension that she cannot let go of, frustration in all directions. She thinks and focuses on not remembering. Just forget it. It's distracting you, it's screwing you up even worse.
But it was pointless, memories of that day slipping into her bloodstream and scratching against the veins. Ache and pleasure, pulsating force, slowly building up fires. Shit, shit, shit. She shuts her eyes tighter as a jolt of electricity suddenly reaches her lower stomach and hips and then instantly pulsates between her thighs, throbbing mercilessly. She shifts uncomfortably, knowing she should block it, but it takes over just like it did the other day. She didn't see any images back then, well maybe faint glimpses of bare skin and bodies moving against each other, and even that shocked her, knocking the air out of her chest and making her want to collapse to the ground, her knees becoming weak without warning. Weak? She repeats the word as if tasting it and rolling it on her tongue. Weak but at the same time not. There was this delicious, amazing feeling of power coming from it that blazed through her body, almost stopping her in time while everything else kept on spinning just the same. Burning but not scorching. It felt good. So, so good. It felt like an addiction. A one she could not resist, the one that could destroy her.
She shakes her head in agitation, annoyed at the melodramatic stupidity of her own thoughts, and continues to work on the breathing part. Steady breaths, Ray. You need to learn how to control it. You must contain it. Her friend's voice rings out in her head once again like a soothing balm, like comfort. She nods. Yes. Contain it. Whatever it was. Whatever it wanted. Would it damage her and the ones she cared about? Would she, without even knowing, unintentionally hurt people? Would she become dangerous? Whenever these thoughts would hit her like just now, she tried not to think about it too much in case her head might explode and act like a pinata hit with a stick by ten million lunatic, sugar-high kids on crack. Somehow she giggles at the image but then focuses again. Well, she tries anyway.
Nothing can stop it, Blackfeather. Just let it in.
She hears the words in her head and shivers, an unexpected fear mixing with something else, the image of the tattoo she had on the side of her ribs, filling her mind. She panics, not even knowing where the whispers came from in the first place, dreading to even ask, feeling the energy growing again and taking over. Possessing her every thought, extending in her cells, bringing flames to the eternal night, and waking something up from its deep slumber. No way of resisting it, inhale your fate. Her body starts to tremble in such a good way. She feels it in her bones and is hungry for the energy she felt in the restaurant the previous day, wanting to experience it again. Over and over again. Almost starving for it, each wire in her nervous system itching to dive into that feeling once more. Her sensible part, wanting to push out the memory, yet the fires underneath scratching and pulling at her with such paralyzing intensity that it makes it beyond impossible to force it away, no matter what she does or how hard she fights it. Which makes her unfocused, distracted, and even more clumsy than usual - and that was saying something.
She remembers how it felt; that drive, that desire, that neverending burning lust. She felt it as if it was her own; that was why it was so overpowering and irresistible like a drug. She didn't just get a sneak peek of something sensual and thrilling. No. She was a part of it. As if she was the one being touched, caressed, teased as if her skin was burning alive with slow, excruciating pleasure that vibrated, pulsated, writhing like a hungry snake, slipping right into... She lets out a moan, so vulnerable and both animalistic that the shock of it knocks the air out of her lungs, making her starts to cough and choke, cheeks quickly turning crimson color. She opens her eyes wide and quickly covers the mouth, her chest moving frantically in panic. What the hell was that?! She looks around half scared, half-guilty for experiencing something so good, expecting punishment at any moment, searching her surroundings for any witnesses or things lurking in the shadows. And then, out of nowhere, she becomes angry.
You were supposed to fight it! Shit, you were supposed to fight it! Can't you do anything, right?!
She screams with a tight throat to no one in particular, causing a bunch of birds to rise from the nearby bushes and appearing to be flying away for their dear lives, the sky filling with frantic clusters of wings and feathers. It's not like she could really blame them. After all, she was a freak show now. Slowly, she shakes her head and attempts to gain some control back while simple thoughts manage to somehow glide over her fevered mind. Were those birds, wrens, or sparrows? Mmm, doesn't matter - she thinks and then, with a sudden fury, punches a patch of grass next to her, searching for some release, to just seconds later drop helplessly to the ground with a heavy thump. Damn it. Why couldn't she just be normal like everyone else? A regular, every day, not attracting much attention weirdo. And not this. Not. THIS.
Huh, and here she thought she reached the highest scores of awkward and lost after puberty kicked in. Guess she was wrong. So very wrong. She lays there for a while and lets the worries flow without any particular words or notions, letting her thoughts be like clouds. Light, free, gliding over the deep cerulean sky. Just peace and nothing else. Slowly, the adrenaline in her blood fades away, the hardship and stress of the last couple of weeks catching up with her yet again; the anxieties and lack of sleep definitely not helping her already messed up case. And as her eyelids become heavier, she gradually drifts into a dream kind of state, the body growing more still and relaxed, slumping into the grass, exhaustion covering her limbs. But it feels good. She thinks, sinking even deeper until an almost unnoticeable shift happens, something moving towards her and surrounding her form, coating the bones, tickling the skin, and dripping into the bloodstream. It's then when she tastes it, a lazy, delicious pleasure that makes her hips lift ever so lightly, torso bending a bit back and forth, hands grabbing strands of grass within her reach, back arching. It's not like it was then, her unconscious mind whispers to her. It's slower, softer. There is affection sawn into this form of passion and delight. It drips like honey from the spoon.
And that is when it happens when she finally lets go. Her energy, flowing into the ground beneath her as the nails dig deep into the soil. Golden, sunset orange streams of light cascading from her fingertips down and then lifting into the air, seeming as if ripples on the surface of the water, but this time pulsating within the earth's embrace and expanding with every second more. You are my heartbeat, and I am yours. The whispers flow into the air and mix with her energy, moving out of the body in slow, irregular rings, a dark golden eclipse within a soul. Her frame shifts to the side, face burrowing itself into the shadows as her dark ink-black hair slips out of the rubber band almost like a living creature, both lifting and covering all of her features in beating floating waves. She is a heartbeat amongst the water and the cool waves. The earth beneath her beating, breathing, and quivering with anticipation, stirring back to life. The pulse of the planet, growing stronger and sending a signal into the universe, communicating what words never could. Her mind is not aware of what's happening; only her energy knows what it does, searching, humming, looking for its counterpart, her being remembering a life long gone, a life that she had lived a dozen times and more. Your home calls you. Your home and complete devastation. The salvation and end in one.
Whichever shall come first, little blackbird of the night.
Whichever shall come first.
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