Magical Index
"shards of glass are one thing - but a marble, there's something to feed your dragons on."
Sunday
Scuffs in Space
Why do the stars hurt me when they dominate the sky and swallow me into the absent blackness of space? Why does everything that defines me shudder and reach when I tilt my head back on those inescapable nights? A vacuum must fill itself – perhaps the limitless, extra-terrestrial vacuum wants to fill itself with me. Calls to me to take up the bean’s life, minutely bolster its stuffing. But I am already crowding my little corner of space, aren’t I? – clinging like a tiny bur to more accomplished vacuum-fillers. And besides, the stars, when I optically inhale them, don’t smell like that kind of despair at all. Why should I ache for such a destiny? No. I ache, you see: I am the vacuum – the vacant needer. I am drawing the sky to myself. And it pains a vacuum to suck so desperately at another. My soul doesn’t know any better, of course: it thinks it can just see – in pinhole increments, where the black-wash of emptiness has worn away in tiny, sparkling scuffs – what must be the vast brightness of some full universe behind.
Why do the stars hurt me when they dominate the sky and swallow me into the absent blackness of space? Why does everything that defines me shudder and reach when I tilt my head back on those inescapable nights? A vacuum must fill itself – perhaps the limitless, extra-terrestrial vacuum wants to fill itself with me. Calls to me to take up the bean’s life, minutely bolster its stuffing. But I am already crowding my little corner of space, aren’t I? – clinging like a tiny bur to more accomplished vacuum-fillers. And besides, the stars, when I optically inhale them, don’t smell like that kind of despair at all. Why should I ache for such a destiny? No. I ache, you see: I am the vacuum – the vacant needer. I am drawing the sky to myself. And it pains a vacuum to suck so desperately at another. My soul doesn’t know any better, of course: it thinks it can just see – in pinhole increments, where the black-wash of emptiness has worn away in tiny, sparkling scuffs – what must be the vast brightness of some full universe behind.
