There is a well behind me, and the word well means nothing. It is silent. It contains meanings which are not. It contains familiar resonance. It contains the footprints of his sister jumping up and down, happy, cheering her brother playing baseball; jumping up and down not knowing that the wood has been weakened over many years of water and worms.
Dancing happily. Falling happily.
Surprise, fear, happiness mixing together as the pull of gravity fills to her loins as the flight of an angel falls down, pulled by this gravity well. The acceleration of the fall which came right after the utter happiness of cheering for her brother who is my father.
And she falls and she forgets. There is no time to think. The blood rushing to the head. The finding herself from world of light, watching the game––the ancient game of the gods––is still here buried deep in her head as she falls.
But now she is surrounded by the darkness, and this darkness moves at a very fast speed, rushing up at her. Joy, happiness, fear, surprise, awe, all mixed into one. No sequence of events. Just a rushing of the fall into the well of gravity to end in the dark waters, with no reflection, with no form, with nothing to create.
Is she then, my sister, my daughter, my mother? Is she there in this dark well fed with the dark waters that run underneath the surface? Is she there in the racial memory, in the silent background, always behind a thin veil of darkness awakening me, calling me beyond the veil?
Or is it my love and my desire for her what reaches out as a tendril from my belly and crosses beyond this veil of illusion and grabs her from her ankle, pulls her down from her life of light and joy?
Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter? Or does she descend like the gentle starlight, flowing, descending through the emptiness of the void to fill up this vessel?
Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops; like the high pitched electrical vibration; like the ambrosia, the sweet nectar that descends from above and touches my tongue, filling my heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?
Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon? Is it just this mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling? Is it just this silly divided mind that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?