The Diary of a Galilean
One waxing crescent, I caught my parents’ lips crawling from the silent abyss, ought to envy me. I was a child of seven years and ninety-three moon stages, and the clandestine moon replicated their words unto the shawl covering me. I found in the moon a lake, and within the lake a commendation.
The pale vale echoed my parents’ accolade, for they spoke of their youngest daughter’s moral, and they identified my virtue in the art of labor. And they saw in me an artist, not a capitalist. A matriarch, and not a patriarch. ‘Her back would be weighed down by the columns of a temple still in construction, for she would seek to the artisans and share their polychromed nails,’ they said.
I am writing with my quill overladen with duty and emotion, but I cannot be so cursive with my flow of my words. Parchment is alive, it is not dead, and the tree’s wrath is upon us.
Your savior is someone’s assassin, and your promise is another’s treason. I have lost what is left of my anatomy at the sight of scourge on the flesh of the unchained. I have spent nights wishing to unbecome, to undress, to spade my crowded organs the way Abraham was willing to.
Have you read of a faith for the worship of a God’s murderer? They say the murder freed the Divine’s cosmic soul from this limiting body. That is why the towel is so thirsty to swell with its intriguing absorption of the blood.
I feel enshrouded by certainty. Nescience is the deathconsciousness and the spectacle of the living. If I were benighted, my skin would not have had been so bedridden. Medicine is meant to breed more sicknesses because closure is the boneyard of nobility. But an animal chased once will always choose to bleed.
My biology does not require for me to cross my legs; I want my lungs to occupy more space. And I do not want that painting to change or for its river course to shift its draining route, but paintings do not alter with time, it is time who adds murky brushes onto the painting, for time has been sullied by the human temperament. This choice of blood is to be seen.
Age can speak of how this vigil portrait, staring back at me in my slumber, has watched me crawl through the mud for a fluke of recreation. In return, I have recapitulated it by my vergence and can repaint it without it losing its innocence.
My sister told me, when we were children, that if we stab the heart of the painting, then its cascading course of water will emerge like a fury chained in a bedlamite’s attic and deluge our room with its acrimonious waters. The water once seemed like it could have sailed our weak baby limbs towards our land like a godparent, but it now embodies a sailor fearful of the shadow of a maiden’s long hair after history’s demonization of sirens.
But I keep seeing frames of my beloved homeland within that winter lodge, or perhaps it does not speak of thunder or storms and is simply a princely passage of spring.
I, once, envisioned it be my new dwelling- a desolate nature in favor of a palatial tent. I never thought of myself as a camper, but my first footsteps were attendances to the camp’s academy. When I fell into syncope, it was in a manner between Cain’s murder and the crows sermonizing the dignity of Abel’s cadaver, and my interstellar sight recalled my diary. So, I wrote to thee.
Pass that epicene aspersion like a current floating beneath me, I fear despoiling more of my years groundless and fallen from the droplets of a frozen leaf. Yet, there he is, appearing before my solitary prayer: An archangel bearing me a motherless annunciation. He is not solely a pigeon with a letter, and his wings weren’t blooming to one day be dissevered, for he is the angel and the prophecy.
Blood is spoken of, but the contuse is never painted. We look upon crucifixion with a burdensome sight, but we never contemplate the faithfulness of a flesh whose criterion could be sewn into ours. There were people waiting for the nail to rust as it pierces the ensnared coats of his being, so that its weight on the meat becomes denser, crueler, souvenired.
Struggle is a metaphor to the analyzer, to the observer, to the crucifier. But you could cover me with the remains of a dead body, and I would cease to be me, and the dead body, too, would never be able to adapt to my bodily weather.
I suppose that is what makes me. I am full of metaphorless metaphors, my iconographies birth iconoclasts. But I do not want to write what my family doesn’t have the means to understand.
