Nicolette can no longer see a face filled with revulsion, lust, disbelief, or compassion. With his head locked in the half-moon, she looks at the leather sack in which everything will end. Incomprehensibly, the stiff stomach that kept her awake last night has morphed into a restless movement of the index toe on her right foot. Six minutes ago, she was more scared. Two hours ago, the ignorant screams from the audience seemed unbearable. Two days ago, she was confident of her good luck.
The logical thick silence has finally reached the crowd. The handsome man, who is situated to her right, begins the ritual by beating his little drum loudly and causing a slight shock in Nicolette. She looks even more at the sack, which is patiently waiting to pick up her own head. She feels how her throat dries up and the stiffness traveler returns to her guts.
Tum, tum, tum, the drum resonates. There is no place for familiar thoughts. She was compassionate at the time, now she just looks at the leather sack.
Someone babbles and Nicolette tries to look up. It is at this moment that the rigid metal sheet produces the rapid hiss downward. In this brief fall the woman's body exudes rigidity and emotion. The steel makes its first contact with the back of her neck and Nicolette makes a short hollow sound. At that moment she sees how the leather sack gets closer.
Not now. Now that sack is moving away. And her own head. And her body. Everything is familiar. The human beings looking at that body who is divided into two parts, the ground full of small and beautiful stones, the houses accompanying the ceremony. All that goes into the background. She understands that her individuality is over.
She keeps slowly rising. With a marvelous calm she reaches the blue limits of the sky and surpasses them, as well as the shocking disbelief of her own death. She understands what she sees. The climb continues with a gentle increase in speed. She looks at the wonderful blue sphere full of life that has been her womb. Suspended, pulsating, calm. Nicolette understands the reason of everything related to her old floating home in space and sends her a grateful kiss.
Now she is staring at the dark immensity filled with beautiful tiny lights. So beautiful! Beautiful! She understands that it's time to activate Consciousness. Time has been a stage. The stage of the person they called Nicolette. There are no longer distances. Nothing is tomorrow, yesterday or now. She is no longer her. It's me. I am. It is the I.
I admire the luminous points because they and I are the same. I start to expand because the limits have died. In my newly rediscovered deity the small bluish sphere returns to me accompanied by its old yellowish star. They want to go home. Its immense warmth receives me with a caress of infinite softness, which produces me a heavenly cry.
I agree, again, with the liberation.
A small sphere of millions of kilometers welcomes me and enters me happily. Everything is happiness. I notice how another little sphere decides to accompany me and I assimilate it. This ritual is repeated with the next five trillion spheres. Love is infinite. I offer my divinity to the light. I let him submit and cradle me to be born in the reborn. It's in this precise moment that the ego shows itself with its armies of fetid bellies, bloated whores, god-socks and bottomless mirrors. The implosion is imminent. Thousands of paraplegic mechanical spiders in the dirty attic of the imaginary self are displayed in their disgusting bearing. They have their bellies very swollen, waiting to be trampled on so that the hollow sound they make when being popped gives them a little popularity. They do not know what to do because they wait to receive their crystal award that will give them back their invented beauty. They want to be lazy to wallow in their wailing without sound. Implosion occurs. The most atrocious scream in the universe bursts the selfish eardrum and the shameful anus of the fictional self is exposed. The ego is lonely because it never existed. The implosion turns into a vomiting explosion, regurgitating the rotten feces of generations of powerless Narcissus, hungry for premeditated frustration.
The ego has died. He has never lived.
The stages have passed, the moments have disappeared.
Nine billion universes dance because they create themselves. They hug, kiss and love each other in an orgasm of childish entropy.
I cross the twenty-one dimensions in timeless ecstasy.
The three infinities are very small.
I overcome the crisis of realization.
Like an army of grateful miracles, millions and millions of supernovae explode inside me in unison composing the supreme symphony.
With every thought I create infinite Big-Bangs. With each feeling I order endless universal laws. With every action I annihilate the fictitious worldly realities.
I am the magma that anticipates my God. We are all I.
But no. Not yet.
In the middle of the soft milky gloom, a light penetrates through that vertical slit. Between repetitive metallic sounds and curious technological instruments, someone encourages little Nicolette to come out without fear.
Within her the definition of effort grows.
Within her the understanding of oblivion is born.
(Image: "Caress", 2019)
