k i s k a J i s m / w h o s e b o d y?

One day, by the sea shore. The philosopher turtle asked the eagle fledgeling to abandon her archaic past. 

“What’s ‘ a r c h a i c ‘ ?” she asked cheekily. He was dumbstruck. He looked at her to see if she knew what she was really saying. She didn’t quite, until much later. “Archaic means old…” he said. 

She told him of the man who went into a cave, contemplating the ills of his eon, until one day, a voice resounded, “Read”. He said “I don’t know how to read”. The angel hugged him, and said “Read in the name of your creator who created, created man from a clot of blood…” Therein began the brilliance of a time which lay within her, of which she didn’t know, but she carried traces, shorn, gnarled, but ebullient. Its radiance uplifts her. Its bounty raises her from her mangled frame of pain and frustration.  

“What’s archaic?” she asks. And now one archaic past is pitted against another in order to rob the present of all its possibility, she is unwilling to let go, and searing itself against the tempest, the past hones itself, it draws deep breaths, and grinds painfully against all that was rotting. 

Rake, unflesh, scratch the surface, draw blood, snarl, puke…Pain can be cathartic. Purge, please purge. Two words .Let Go.