Potential Contains

Sample from Ehaema. For more information, please contact the author

---

And so they fell.  And as they fell, they fought.  

Perhaps ‘fought’ was the wrong word.  Perhaps it was the right word and we have come to use it in a shallow way.  There was no physicality involved in what was happening to them.  It was a clash of personalities, of assumptions.  It was a probing of each other’s certainties, in the hopes of uncovering one that turned out to be an uncertainty.  It was a Dialogue.  In a realm of software, they were free to abandon the position of advocates, so that they could become living models of the things they believed.  

Elan

believed

in soft, black earth with a delicious itch made of living things, a fever taking hold, threads of meaning and nourishment expanding like three dimensional fibrous fractures beneath the surface, pressure and moisture giving way to ecstatic eruption, a green and shivering newness aware in the air, tasting of light for the first time until that taste became a riot in the body, in the cells, a dew-kissed and buzzing affirmation of the value of being until the folds inside unfold and Elan presents a bloom, and the bloom feeds the air, feeds the world on the divine wind which is breath, which contains the cyclic process nested within itself, all possibility, all potential

potential contains beauty

Avernus believed

that potential contains horror

potential contains nothing.  Are there, or are there not  

chromosomal nightmares, cells dividing and dividing into monstrous growths in the body’s most vulnerable places, attacking the mind as they attack the body, attacking the spirit as they attack the mind, the horror of the night, the petrified stare of a poet dead in a locked room, mouldering under piss and shit and the sound of the television which has been on for a year, a year and counting in this yellowing tenement where rot has become immortalized in dust and the crusted remains in a hypodermic needle cradled in the arm like a baby, and the ashes of a poem, her last poem, invisible but potential, dead on the page, senseless ruin of beauty, of the mind, of order, of everything, and it does not have to be

we can be better

we can defy this arbitrary loss, and become a new infinite Real in which pain is but the kiss of victory that we keep in a folded scrapbook, to remind us of how we lived before Bliss.