Trespassing Televangelism
It was a most damned fall.
That even the stars could not bear me a fruit; a child. The colored hues offered their dignified stains on my curtains. I adopted the rivers of the world yet they issued a question against my parenthood.
The eyes of God seemingly touch the soul of mine as it swiftly transcends my focus. I mute the pulses of the screen before me. It is devoid of a heart- I tell myself, it’s fine that I shut it down and devoured my plate after I had silenced its waves and felt the joys of its calm death.
When my consciousness occupied the earth and found itself the right material to sew its mattress, I was told that it exhaled limitation, that it cannot fit the diameter of the ocean. That this impotency is the total opposite of someone else’s dominion. Connately, there was to be a vast separation and a power structure that is to not be questioned or demeaned.
Perhaps, I cannot fit the ocean, but I know how to swim to the depths of it. I am not an architect; I am a diver. I do not need to design to know. The building stays not the way it was crafted at birth, and so, the architect remains at a disadvantage against me. I sail every blue moon, and luckily, the ocean’s reflection aligns with just the right tint.
I hear the pulse again and I turn it off. I convene shuffled emotions when it comes to tragedies. I am not the creator of everything, I am the end of all things. There is equality between these two works but yet the latter holds much more power. We accredit so much to birth, to creation, simply because we have the means to retain a knowledge of the creation of creation. Death, on the opposite hand, has not a relative to convey the story behind its wonders. We fear what we do not know. We fear what we cannot know yet are forced to end up experiencing.
This fear, though, turns not into power; it turns into the pity at every funeral, at the grief of each fading portrait. It becomes consumed by a new frame of another labor, in the process of defeating the death with the birth. They have forgotten that the water that nourishes these plants can be of their destruction if not equated in precision.
Life cannot murder, but death can evoke creation.
Your hands once touched me when stones were forbidden to flee their true form and be turned to anything. But this touch was cursory, and the forests I partook myself in watering conceived fatal passengers. I beg you not to preach, for your voice cannot puncture through me. Your piercings do not turn into cavities, for my skin is not kin to yours. Everything residing in you is contradictory, and I am whole.
I turn off the pulse the same way it broke through this hall’s walls. There is nothing a mortal can do that cannot be of reversion. You created the starry blue hues but I am a master of the blackest pigment. Even at night, your shadow is to be overshadowed by mine.
Suddenly, the pieces merged together: the reason my curtains stained for the longest time was because of the white lace present, scared to pass across the streets of the world. A lamb is easy to sacrifice because its creation cannot stop latching to the virginity of the color. This virginity comes with docility to the shepherd, to the mortal, to the family, to God.
It is because of that particularly that they were born in multiplication; by a shepherd that needs them, by a mortal’s hand holding the money after their slaughter, by a feasting family, by God’s hands, taking their soul away in captivity.
Birth is incredible in its danger. The virgin cannot remain white, for blood comes the second you’re pulled from the refuge that is the womb. Violence cannot be escaped from or disposed of. The hijack comes close to first yet still remains second. Though, in a lot of common extremities, it is the first, the second, and the eternal.
I refuse to be experimented on with any hands, whether gloved or bare. I cannot see what you see for my sight holds beyond the ocean that has kept you in limitation. I cannot hold the galaxies you praise in awe as I have progressed way ahead of them. You display them on screen, yet their so-called power cannot break through my guard.
I cannot remain an image of someone if my birth is considered of inferiority in comparison. What image? The image of false comfort that comes with that belief: That him and I are one, when all he does is condemn me?
I have trespassed that reviled road, and I cannot call it an unjust perpetration for intruders must know not to cross outside their land. This is my altar, and you cannot tarnish it with your holy water. The rivers call for me each night now, whilst you are succumbing to thirst. Your cross has turned against you as the hands that once held them have the desire to strangle as you seek slumber.
