I heard the stories as the world who was old was disappearing.
I heard the stories with the unequivocal assurance that they were true exactly as they were told. It made me wonder how many stories were hidden in the darkness, after the light of humans came, after the subconscious myth of gods and voices was erased from the light. Made me wonder what was lurking in the shadows of my racial memory.
What remained behind corpses under the ground and what was to come out if I was to open my mouth bigger than my face and look at the sky with eyes of infinite sadness?
What would happen if I would let something spin and spin and spin around until I became centered and everything disappeared and fell and moved?
What would happen if I spun these stories not with words, but sensations and moments with small movements and gentle spans, and the darkness within illuminated through infinite spaces?