The Transformation (AC)

It was a destructive experience—I was, for a span of time immeasurable, on the brink of total collapse.

I suppose I’ll begin the exciting tale where I left off—with me jumping up from my computer, having just posted the first installment of this rather interesting stage of my life, grabbing my duffel bag full of carefully collected ritual artifacts, and rushing out of my apartment.

I was late. I should have been well out of the city by then. I should have been in place, with all the intricate pieces of ritual spread on the ground around me, waiting calmly for the hour to strike. My father had given me instructions, but no explanations.

Instead, I was speeding up a highway, looking for a dirt road and an expanse of uninhabited land. Even in the sparse outskirts of our little city, I could not find a place out of eyeshot of human signs. I had no idea what kind of destruction my transformation might cause, and I had no desire to cause harm.

With fifteen minutes left, and me between cities (towns, really), I pulled off the highway and onto a tractor-scarred gravel road that lead into the heart of a crop field. I don’t know what was growing—Strawberries, maybe? There was no fruit, but the air was sweet and moist with dirt’s promise, and the gentle reach of soft greenery.

With three minutes left to midnight, I slid my car to a halt, grabbed the keys and bag, and sprinted across the field. What if I exploded? I wouldn’t want to hurt my car. The adrenaline soaked my arteries, and the sprint came naturally.

As I was running, several things occurred to me:
None of my clocks were accurate to the minute.
Cosmic midnight might be different from our measure of time.
I was not born on midnight.
I had no idea how this was going to work.

It also occurs to me that trying to write at work is not a good way to produce cohesive results. It is, however, a fantastic way to incubate inhuman rage.

I ran. I sprinted as hard as I could, my feet sinking in the pregnant soil. It felt right. It was exhilarating. I love running fast, and the night air was cool and sustaining.

And suddenly, everything stopped. I was frozen, mid-stride, mid-breath, with both feet off the ground. Only my thoughts continued.

I have no idea how long I was suspended there. It might have been a month. It could have been a decade. At one point I panicked, believing myself locked, believe that I failed to withstand the transformation. Maybe this was death.

But I relaxed, and took advantage of the opportunity. I am now immensely grateful for the small amount of time I have spent studying meditation methods and philosophy. Without those ideas, I might have lost my grip, frozen in time, only to fall to the ground babbling nonsense, robbed of my mind.

Every moment, everything is absolutely transitory. No single moment can be held. Everything is changing, everything is moving. Everything is temporary, and we only barely exist, so brief and small are our lives, compared to the infinite expanse. Like the mathematical point, we are so small that we have no value—we exist mostly as an idea. But contained within that point, there are an infinite number of points. Within the lifetime, there are an infinite number of instants. And likewise, within each instant, there is an infinite number of moments.

We are nothing, and we are everything.
God is the Universe.
We are made in the image of Him.
We are all a universe.

The purpose of religion is to enumerate morality; morality is an instinct. We are born with the drive to be moral, because this is how to be a healthy part of the perfect infinity.

I was always taught that the true torment of Hell is being apart from the Great One.
Every body is a universe.
Unhealthy systems are ejected from the Host like popped pimples.
All of mankind must be healthy as a unit.

That is the role of the angel.
That is the task set upon me.

My preconceptions crumbled. My sense of time abandoned me, and I reveled in the instant.

And in my understanding, I found that I could move, from moment to moment within that instant. My feet touched dirt, though the ground was as ungiving as stone beneath my feet. A cloud was frozen against the sky, and there was no twinkle to the stars.

I began to run. It didn’t feel quite normal; the air was viscous and uncooperative. My watch was still frozen at what would be midnight, if I’d adjusted the hands correctly. I looked behind me. There was a slight distortion of moonlight where I’d displaced air, but not much.

And then I stepped out of the moment, allowed it and its universe of instants to pass. I jerked myself out of that frame, and into this, and the universe spun around me.

And then the earth exploded. Dust and gravel rocketed into the air. I could hear a shower of rocks, launched at high speeds, pinging against my car, and in front of my, a great rippling wave of soil jolted away from where my feet rested. The force of my stop sent me skidding across the moist ground and blasting dirt in a huge shockwave that drowned countless young plants beneath its tumult.

The ground where I’d stepped was torn. Deep, splattered footprints ripped a yard-wide gash through the neat tilling. I’d sprinted a quarter mile in an instant, and the force of my movement was impelled into the ground. I could only see the effects afterward.

And then my chest exploded. I choked. I gasped so hard for air that my throat closed. My heart was painfully audible, and I could see my chest convulsing with the manic beats. I’d overcome time and space, but laws that govern matter cannot be escaped while wearing a suit of flesh. My body paid the price.

I took a step back toward my car.
My leg gave beneath my, suddenly ripped with fire.
I collapsed, and my body seized like a spider into a single ball of wailing muscle.
I lost consciousness listening to the panic of my heart, and wishing for death.

That is why this post is late.