The bottom, the center, the most hidden, inner place, the heart of the crypt to which "God" alone descends when he has renounced modes and attributes. For this most secret virginity of the "soul" surrenders only to one who also freely offers the self ...
The bottom, the center, the most hidden, inner place, the heart of the crypt to which "God" alone descends when he has renounced modes and attributes. For this most secret virginity of the "soul" surrenders only to one who also freely offers the self in all its nakedness. This most private chamber opens only to one who is indebted to no possession for potency… But how to remember all this if the fire was so fierce, the current so strong as to remove all traces? If everything has become fire and water and nothing remains but a burning shimmer and flowing stream? If the brazier was so deep as to erase all memory of the path of touch that still guides us in our ecstatic transports? If nothing remains but/of an incandescent hearth that none can reach?
This is a story that I remember, the story I saw, dreamed, or the story I imagined. It doesn't matter. It never matters to me, or to a woman who knows how it was; her quick was burned, her slit was torn, her bone was clipped, once, or over and over. There are always cryptic stories in me, in her, that have been recessed in a den or a cave where I/she was relentlessly confined, shackled, strained. The story, however, has never vanished. The abyss of oblivion never works in that place. And there are paths, or cleavages, that intermittently open their gateways be they entrances/exits. How elusive they are, how shrouded they are: these indefinite passages are the path ways where I/she tell, edit, translate, interpret stories, and sometime, create, if I/she am evoked with an unbounded stories.