Lilith

"We were made to fuck each other, one way or another."


How interesting that I live in a species that, in it's oldest, most ancient mythology and literature, has separated and pejorated the woman that refuses to submit.  Lilith is the oldest demon because she was made of dust, like Adam, instead of made of Adam.  Argument to antiquity doesn't cut it.  Things are old, but they aren't right.  Ask Lilith.  We've always been diseased.  


Hey man
Evening on the ground
And there is no one else around
So you will
Blame me

Blame me for the rocks and baby bones
And broken lock on our 
Garden

Garden wall of Eden
Full of spiderbites and all your lovers
We were

We were born to fuck each other
One way or another

But I'll only lie
Down by the waterside at night

Hey man
Tiny baby tears
I will collect a million years
And you can
Blame me

Blame me, I will wear it
In the empty hollow part of my 
Garden

Garden wall of Eden in the clamour
As they raise the curtain
You will

You will never make me
Learn to lay beneath the mountain

Because I'll only lie
Down by the waterside at night

"Lilith's Song," Iron & Wine

I met a man who bled to death.  He slit his wrist with shards from his pocketwatch.  He said that bleeding to death is like nothing you’ve ever experienced.  It’s like someone threw turpentine on the outline of the world.  He said the separation between him and the stained linoleum faded until there was no distinction between man and floor. 

I once walked through a valley of trees so dense they blotted the moon.  After that, I believed that losing yourself in the darkness is only a cliché to people who live in the city.  The grey of London’s 2:30AM is minor astigmatism, but the darkness of the forest is blindness.  I used to cover one eye when I went to the restroom late at night because I wanted to see the different between and eye exposed to light and one exposed to darkness, but when the moon is blotted, your pupils don’t bother to dilate. 

You feel frantic, you feel expansive.  You are afraid because this breath was oxygen but the next could be dust or liquid nitrogen.  Your feet shuffle a cowardly squaredance through pine needles and your hands wave like antenna. 

If you could find something solid, it would be different, but as long as you stand with no stabilization, you are inconcrete.  Space is vacuous and you are matter.  Your lines are blurry, and you are terrified, not of the dark, but of your identity. 

It doesn’t matter, who you are.  Not in the dark. 

What terrifies you about the dark is not what is out there, but what isn’t.  You are a mirror.  Effervescent, you are tendrils of smoke, you are the feathery appendages of a stilled lightning storm, you are a fossil.  And that pressure on your chest is not the pressure of the atmosphere on you, compressing your sternum, restricting your diaphragm; that is the pressure of the inside, like a balloon too full, the tendency of all particles, your soul, to entropically gravitate towards areas of lower concentration.  Get some light, quick, before it’s all gone, faded into the atmosphere like breath on a cold night. 

There is no dark in the city.  Just beige.