I am going to walk you around. I will wash you. I will feed you. I will listen and wait for the signs in order to keep you healthy and satisfied. I will give you all the pleasures and I will train you hard for you to be strong and efficient. So you will be able to serve and support the brain, and it will work uninterrupted, it will take in the information and process it into ideas.
My dear body.
Keep the hands sweaty with writing because there is a lot to say about your past, let’s transform your memories into portals I can use to time travel. You are just a tool I rearrange and mistreat and the more time we spend together the less I see you as myself. I should be nicer to you.
But you are not here to just execute my orders, I know I am learning so much from and through you; I really need to listen to you more carefully because it’s the only way to exist in this tangible world. You are the connection with everyone else, and they are all on different planes, shuffling through black holes, in and out, in and out, and here we are.
We bond through language but we only get to be on the same level when we stay in silence, our bodies breathing, our hands touching, our atoms acknowledging each other’s souls. Our consciousness is flickering in the air and we pretend like we don’t know what it means. And we get closer, we want to get under the skin, into the flesh, we want to eat each other to the point of breaking the tools that keep as grounded; we don’t remember that by doing so we lose touch with what really matters.
My dear body.
Every time I break you I feel lonelier. I only now realise that you are the way through to all the other entities. My lovers. My friends. And the older you get the less I care about their bodies. Just tools. Just portals. Kept nicely, taken care of, polished and pleased. Just tools. And hopefully if used properly, we will all meet again.
Perhaps the soul, the data, is not lost once you die, perhaps it hides in the atoms, in the trees, in the rocks and water and the air, until the atoms accumulate in a new human configuration. Perhaps I hang in those atoms when I time travel back into your physical memory and I am there, just in a different shape, in a non shape, I am definitely infinite.
You are the perfect tool and I promise to respect you in our coexistence until the universe shuffles the atoms again and I’ll try to figure it out all over again, perhaps through fucking and writing, because sometimes this awareness and talent just pour out of me as if I’ve done this billions of times before. I only know what I remember.
I am not my body. I am not you.
