If woman is not on this earth, then it will be no more and every woman after, will be lost, find herself afloat, aghast, marooned and never find herself, even that woman who has left the earth.
In the body's space, time is inalienable, even frightening; her eyes will open to desolation, see nothing and feel joy, joy to have come into a new age, build a tower identical to Babel and see the vastness of the emptied world. It is then she'll begin her descent from the tower, open her womb to repopulate the earth with the asexual fissures negated by the push/pull of gravity, allow her hand to move in great gesture, in great length without broken sequence. She will dance in a motion unbroken by the interruption. The distance between herself and ignorance will never exist.
And in this new land, she will exit by desire, a virtuous will be and not become, falter and fix herself only on self-titillation and orgasmic birth. The tale then would be never-ending, the gesture finite, the loins regenerated.
In her singularity, a single constant will persevere, only a single, and in that constant, with her eyes to the new world, she stands, high and tall, in a terrain invented by her mind, a landscape not of abstract but of nowhere. Time passes alongside her, the flare of life subsides in that life and if not, it is because she has become unwilling to risk her life.
In the beginning of nothing, there is too a mind apart from this new world, given only over to the presence, the future may never come to pass but it isn't a thought that occupies her, only fruitful reproduction of the likeness of her, created in her image, from her rib, her flesh, her mind, her heart. She is privy not to the limits which the mythical man has succumb to, she concerns herself not with his past, nor consorts with time in the sense that it is her deity..
The only limit she may find is the limitations of self- with discomfort, discombobulation, comes again the earth anew. With each phenomena, there comes void, a break in time, in space, where the will of things may arrive timely, fashionably lethal and if the world is to end, it ends because it has in her.
There is then immobility, a reckoning of what is and an ignorance of what is not until it in itself occurs naturally from the kernel of the earth itself. She may wander of the spring and wander onto the equator, lose the northern lights and great northern brights and come into the southern hemisphere and as she roams, the world inside of her begins to renew itself in lapse and cycle.
She finds the end of the earth but there is no leap into darkness; light is much too alluring for her, more than coexistence that bolts the door to the new world she is bound to discover.
But she moves against gravity, in alacrity- to be, she must seek what she knows is something that is unknown to her and in that process, she finds the fever to be, finds that she is the epicenter of the process of becoming, that she exists.
Her portrait painted, masterpiece before there was perspective- she is born as a woman and births woman. There lives no period of the infantile for she was set on the earth already upright and all beneath her feet on unbroken realm of latitudes stretching deep into the oasis, deep into the abysmal space.
The sojourn, however fruitful, is fruitless, in paradox of her body that sees vision inasmuch limit has and cannot be reached. Only within her can she meet such limits and if she does, she'll walk till she is again anew. Death comes not. The end comes not.
Within the womb is she , inside of her womb, the woman, in amniotic stroke, moves with purpose through a stagnant Lethe, quieted for her very endeavor.
Understand that she is the world, the earth anew, the world in her womb creates a depth that lives, there and as apart of her, knows no limits.
Dontrell Lovet't
from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]
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