Author's Note:
First of all, thank you to everyone who voted for my portfolio in the top 5! It means a lot.
Anyway, I decided to get a little experimental with this one, try my hand at something new. I've never written a first-person story before, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I also used a journal entry format, which I have not used before. Like I said, I got experimental.
I was inspired by Kapur's Ganesha Goes to Lunch, and more specifically the seen where Guha is brought back to life by Shiva. He is transported from the Land of the Dead to the World Tree, which reincarnates him back into his body. I changed a few details here and there, but that's the basic arc. Without further ado,
Reincarnation:
. . .
I'm in a place, I've decided. It's not just nowhere. Well, I mean it is nowhere--total darkness, the great all-black, the void. But it's not Nowhere with a capital 'N.' I'm definitely someplace. A place of total and utter nothingness, but a place nonetheless.
. . .
Today I found a crack. The narrowest, most imperceptible ripple in the fabric of this place. It is the first 'something' I've seen since the lights went out. Ha. Never thought I'd be so excited over 'something in someplace' but here we are.
. . .
The more I nudge it, the more I think I can open it up. I don't even know if that thought makes any sense, or what I'd be opening. Or what's on the other side. But I think I can do it.
. . .
I was twirling the rift, as I've come to call it, idly tody, as I've been ever since I found it. It soothes me, the hint that I may not be completely alone in the place. Anyway, I was twirling my finger in it, when my finger passed plain through to the other side! And I felt it. I mean, really felt it. The first thing I've actually touched since I been died. The rift doesn't feel like anything. But this? It was soft, that's the first thing I noticed, nearly sponge-like. Crumbly and delectably warm. I don't know what's out there, but I'm going through. See you on the other side.
. . .
It's dark here too. But not nearly the same as the void. Here, there is still the notion that light exists. If not here, then somewhere. Something tells me it's above me. I don't know how or why, but I know that's where I have to go.
. . .
I dig. I don't have time to do much else. When I'm not digging, I'm sinking. Like I'm being buried alive in the stuff, though that's not the proper word for it. I guess I'm being buried dead.
. . .
It's dirt. It's taken so long to remember, been so long since I last saw it, but it finally hit me; It's dirt. The thing I first touched through the rift. The thing I've been digging through for an eternity. It's dirt. It's all dirt. This entire existence, whatever twisted reality neighbors the void, it's all just dirt. I would laugh if I thought I could open my mouth without swallowing lungfuls of loam.
. . .
Every day I dig a little higher.
. . .
I did it. I broke through. The first thing I noticed, being on the surface, was how cleanly my limbs sliced through the air. The air. I can breath again. My lungs rise and fall in the most wonderful imitation of life. How is this possible? Where am I now?
. . .
Behind me is the biggest tree I've ever seen. No, the word 'tree' doesn't do it justice. When I say tree, what do you think of, an oak? A conifer? Palm? This is none of those, nowhere even close. And yet it is all of them. It has branches. It has roots. It's leaves are galaxies and its trunk is all of time and space. It is the trinity of the divine. Lord Shiva forms its roots, upside-down, his hair curling into the dirt to transform its formless potential into raw energy. Brahma sits upon him in a rigid stance of deep meditation, forming the trunk of the magnificent World Tree. It is by his hands that the transformative energy of Shiva is molded into life. Creation itself., Vishnu burgeons over them all. He is the roof of this strange world I find myself in. The branches of the tree. It is his shade which preserves creation. It is from his leaves which sprout the many myriad galaxies. The fruit he bears are the many countless worlds of creation, each harboring life in its own way. Some even sprout societies, with individuals and hopes and dreams, who suffer and celebrate, whose lives play out in the blink of a cosmic eye.
 |
| The Tree of Life by Alex Gray. He is one of my favorite artists, and I though his painting was fitting |
The three gods of the Brahman's divine trinity say nothing to me. But I somehow know, all the same. I am to pick one of the fruits and take a bite. The decision is not so hard. Though there are fruits beyond number, there is one in particular which calls to me. It is the most delightful shade of blue, with here and there swirls of vibrant green and wispy trails of white. It tastes of home.
. . .
The next thing I remember, I forgot it all and was born anew. The world is very bright. I hear myself crying.
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