Kiss the Dark Sun

At this point dear reader we can only hope that the formula is so deeply embedded within my neurological system that somehow I will be able to navigate through the horrid jungle of human existence without being devoured by some giant carnivorous plant with a Coca Cola logo genetically engineered into its veins. I do feel like a small ship, perhaps fashioned from an emptied half of a walnut shell with a tiny sail made from a cloth once used for cleaning spectacles, set adrift in a great fetid duck pond with giant blotches of algae on the surface. I know that soon I will find my way into the gutter, which is for a boat my size a vast river the likes of the Nile or the Styx, crashing along at a terrific clip, dragging little vessels made of leaf and moss and discarded bottle caps down to the falls, the great cascading drop off into the darkness of a subterranean network of tunnels.
The caverns lie beneath your feet right now. Your house is built over them, your office, your car zooms over them… as you walk whistling over the smooth concrete side walk (stepping over the lines and cracks so as to spare your mother, the devil’s back) the sun shinning down on your well conditioned hair, just underfoot mysterious things are being carried along on a current of black water. Baby caimans flushed down the toilet, scattered fragments of hashish disposed of during a raid, a yo-yo, a Barbie’s head, used up condoms, they all bob along, propelled by a force like that which delivered the terrified children upon Willy Wonka’s glass sugar boat to unimaginable destinations infested with like measures of horror and delight. I have found that I long to put my face for a moment in the sun, before it is too late and there is no going back and I will never see it again. To say farewell to its loving caress, that is my last desire. Like a naval officer taking a last kiss from his sweetheart before reporting to his post within the belly of a steel whale, I accept its last offering before my voyage into Tartarus.
I yearn to kiss the sun, not be kissed by it, but to return anew and kiss it myself, pouring the essence of my self into it just as it has done for me. I hope it remembers how much I love it. Though we are ever separate, we are ever the same. What a devious order I have become entangled with, a queerly structured disorder, which has become my very own way. "There is no way of knowing, which way that we are going, but the rowers keep on rowing…"
When I was a tiny flower I never imagined the depth and breadth of the underworld sleeping below me, keeping my little roots warm. As I have grown it too has grown to accommodate my far reaching and thirsty tendrils, all of this, my secret hidden parts, expanding to support my extravagant bloom. I thought then that it would be all love. Although even at that time I could perceive the strange shadows lurking just behind the corners of my parents’ reassuring smiles. How not to be born into a world of espionage and sabotage?
That is the part unimagined by small buds, first poking their heads out among the green blades to drink up the sun’s golden radiance, that we will one day have to turn it all upside down to make right the balance of the eternal and the temporary. We will have to exert something of ourselves, not merely stare back at the face that adores us. We must give something back. How better to do this, than to hang ourselves by one toe from the rafters so that all of the delicate elixirs of life begin to trickle from bottom to top? In this way I build a sun within me, my own center of the universe, so that I too can emit a golden radiance to reach out and caress the face of my beloved.
When I was young I needed much sleep and nursed on the nectar of love to sustain myself. Now has come the time for me to rise as a star and care for the tiny sleeping buds growing on a now dark sun. My father, my grandfather, my eternal beloved, has grown dim pouring its radiance into me. The only chance for life to continue, is for me to become the new sun. I shall take the world from atlas’ tired back, and trust and hope that he will come for me in the next epoch.
It is very dark just before I burst into flames. It is very dark inside the womb. We can only hope, dear reader, that the formula is so deeply embedded within my neurological system that somehow I will be able to navigate through the darkness and come out where I intended. There is a moment in which all gravity is lost during the great transference, the shift of poles. Then, as my host hangs upside down to mirror me, I will have a chance to redeem him, bursting out through the top of his head rather than being squeezed down the channel and out of the mother’s dilated vulva. With exertion, with the will to do so, I will rise. I will kiss and sustain the dark sun from where I blaze.