Margoshka and the Infinite Process

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light but by making the darkness conscious.  The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular.” – Carl Jung

I am crawling along the shore
The sand is scraping the skin on my knees
Growls reverberate inside my scull and ribcage,
Animal sounds made by animal being.
Consciousness, a haughty illusion,
She shows me a tall drink of cool water one day
And a steaming pile of shit the next.
None of it real.  Nothing substantial.
No hope for the lost. No rest. No ground.
Falling, clutching at crinkly brown vines
I descend, lower, and lower.  Down.
It’s dark here and the mirage twinkles
Far away overhead.
No use in struggling, in praying for release
Laying aside each seductive storyline
Unwrapping the strands I lay them out on the ground.
They disappear, empty.
Each fervent wish, dream of years, eons
Each idea, each torment, slips silkily into nothing.
Trembling with shame and lust
I am writhing on the shore of this vast ocean.
The salty air fills my nostrils and
My screams mingle with the sounds
Of the waves crashing ashore.
These very old friends,
The water, the sand,
The moon, the night sky, and I.