The Stream of Life Read Online Free PDF

Wait—for I shall get out of this darkness where I'm afraid, darkness and ecstasy. I'm the heart of the shadows.
    The problem is that there's a defect in the curtain in the window of my room. It doesn't draw and so it doesn't close, either. So the full moon comes in, and the room becomes phosphorescent with silence: it's horrible.
    Now the shadows are dissipating.
    I was born.
    Pause.
    Marvelous scandal... I am born.
    My eyes are closed. I'm pure unconsciousness. They've already cut the umbilical cord: I'm loose in the universe. I don't think but I feel the it. With eyes closed I search blindly for the breast: I want thick milk. Nobody taught me to want. But now I want. I remain lying down with eyes open, looking at the ceiling. Inside is the darkness. A pulsating I is taking shape. There are sunflowers. There is tall wheat. I is.
    I hear the hollow rumble of time. It's the world deafly taking shape. If I hear it's because I exist before the formation of time. "I am" is the world. World without time. My consciousness now is light and is air. The air has neither place nor time. The air is the non-place where everything will exist. What I'm writing is music of the air. The formation of the world. Little by little what will be approaches. What will be already is. The future is ahead and behind and on the sides. The future is what has always existed and always will exist. Even if Time is abolished? What I'm writing you is not to be read—it's to be. The trumpets of angel-beings echo in the timelessness. The first flower is born in the air. The ground that is earth is formed. The rest is air and the rest is slow fire in perpetual mutation. Does the word "perpetual" not exist because time does not exist? But the rumble exists. And my existence begins to exist. Does time then begin?
    It suddenly occurred to me that it's not necessary to have order to five. There's no pattern to follow and there's not even pattern itself: I am born.
    I'm still not ready to speak of "him" or "her." I point to "that." That is universal law. Birth and death. Birth. Death. Birth and . . . like the world breathing.
    I'm pure it that was rhythmically pulsating. But I feel that soon I'll be ready to speak of "him" or "her." I don't promise you a story here. But it has it. Who can endure this? It is soft and is an oyster and is a placenta. I'm not joking because I'm not a synonym—I'm a proper noun.
    There's a line of steel traversing all of this that I'm writing you. There's the future. Which is today.
    My vast night takes place in a primary state of latency. My hand rests upon the earth and listens hotly to the beating of a heart. I see the large white slug with a woman's breasts: is it a human entity? I burn it in an inquisitional fire. I possess the mysticism of the shadows of a remote past. And I leave these tortures of a victim with the indescribable mark that symbolizes life. Elementary creatures surround me, dwarfs, goblins, gnomes, and genies. I sacrifice animals to take from them the blood I need for my occult ceremonies. In my fury I offer up the soul in its own blackness. The Mass terrifies me—I who perform it. And the turbid mind dominates all matter. The beast bares its teeth, and horses of allegorical chariots gallop through the distant air.
    In my night I idolize the secret meaning of the world. Mouth and tongue. And a loose horse, running free. I keep his hoof as a loving fetish. In the depth of my night there blows a crazed wind that brings me threads of cries.
    I'm feeling the martyrdom of an inopportune sensuality. I wake at dawn full of fruit. Who will come to gather the fruits of my life? If not you and I myself? Why is it that an instant before things happen they seem to have already happened? It's a question of time's simultaneity. That's why I ask you questions and why there will be so many of them. Because I am a question.
    And in my night I feel the evil that dominates me. What they usually call a beautiful landscape only