He had been swimming in the guts of life, among putrid amoeba and choking tentacles.
As usual, Grace then showed its face through the morning sun.
But instead of a rebirth, a prolonged dying followed,
and for the next years his corpse moldered.
A poisonously sweet lure to the old and familiar worms.
Yet in the midst of his self-composting, he was alive to the new information he was receiving.
Waves of truth zigzagging through the static and ripping through lumps of dead matter, Lodging themselves into his brain, downloading steadily.
Folders to be set aside and reopened later.
He woke up courageously and looked outside of his own eyes for the first time in years.
Remembering that he had always been here in some form, billions of years at least.
Spiraling around in perfect violence and organic bliss.
It was sad to have forgotten it, but not abnormal.
Such was the role that members of his species were asked to perform,
in a long-running game of hide-and-seek.
A veil of stars clouded his vision.
At night he was awake to the trembling hands of gods playing strings with his heart,
knitting threads of golden light from his spine to the celestial serpent at the end of all things.
The great grandmothers could wait for eternity.
A breach tore in the landscape of sun and sea and dancing trees,
revealing a grotesque but loving answer to the question:
‘Why? Why this? Why is there something instead of nothing?’
He had to digest the fact that there is only living with the mystery,
To take the unspeakable feeling that comes as a response and hold it ever so lightly.
So he got up and blew tobacco up his nose and shed a tear and went about the daily activities of life, in all its atrociously incomprehensible glory.