There is no beginning.
No fraction of time where everything simply existed. No millisecond when something decided to live. No minute when the seas awoke, when the sun shone, when the mountains rose.
It is illogical to assume any story has a beginning. Any tale can be traced along its roots, to threads woven before it. Ideas, like matter, aren't created. They simply change form. Gas to liquid, revolutionary to renaissance. The art was always there, shifting, molding, melting, existing.
It seems unimportant then, where we choose to begin our tale.
Here, lies our 'Madre'. A woman named for the trauma that she would solely bring to pass, on humanity. The mother of sorrow. A beast, a burden, a flower.
Humankind. A strange breed. So afraid of ambiguity, they shun it. Rigid, uncaring, and essentially a dying race.
And so their god sent this woman. To heal them, to lead them, to bear their saviour, his son, who'd in turn, rescue them from their earthly shackles. But the Madre decided to delay her task.
Bolero. Ravel's Bolero
She knelt. Arms horizontal, palms up, head back. Naked as the day she was born, mutilated by helter skelter, frightening scars. Lacerations down her back, covering her spine and ribs. Incisions through her arms, burns on her legs, lesions on her breasts.
Now, the question arises. Why on earth would anyone do this to themselves? What would posses this woman to be consumed by her desire to bleed?
Mortal sin. Immortal sin. Riteous decisions. Deluded thought. Perhaps, if you asked her, she might tell you. She might... but then again she'd most likely attack you for spying.
Shame on you, mortal brother. Let not your curiosity sway you from your purpose.
She shifted, attention torn. Tears of blood crept down her face.
She sat, palms in the air, head tilted back. Raven locks tumbled down the marred flesh of her back. Skin pale, amber eyes closed, breathing steady. Quiet. Nude. The dark cotton that so often hugged her thin form was gone. Blood, puss, open wounds. Dark scars, crusting flesh.
Why would she do that? You wonder. An ache, a pain, a need to belong. She hurts. She bleeds. She is purity, and she is death. She is life, and she is evil. A contradiction in the truest sense, brings conflict within oneself. To live, or to die? Neither choice seems reasonable, or attainable. One who cannot feel, cannot live. And to forsake her life force now would be tragedy for humanity. To bleed is to feel, and to die. Life force escaping, pain becomes real, and the twin souls may once again unite.
Lies, truths, fiction, reality. In a world such as this, they become inseparable. Undeterminable. A world as this, filled with passions unfelt by mortals. A world of realities so incomprehensible its frightening. A wonderland, filled with loves more authentic than you've ever felt, of passion, intensity, amour, but contradicted by frightening shadows. Heralding from the darkness, beasts larger then fiction, with teeth that bite and claws that scratch. Beware the Jabberwock my son!
This, dying woman comes from the world. The wonderland, the world of dreams. A reality that you mortal, yearn for. You might as well recognize her spirit. Magdalene. Mother. Nurturer. Race to her, child before she wakes! Cling to her, love her, but despise her. She is a beast, a danger, a scourge. Slay her child, before her time is near, and before she slays you!
Quick, child. Quick. Don't watch her, act. Act now. She'll find you, and she'll slay you.
She stirred, a tongue darted from pale lips, caressing the dry flesh. She moved, gently. Amber eyes flickered towards you.
She knelt, before the black altar. Deep in the home of her crypt, the stench of decay assaults you. Bare knees cupped together. Spine arched, palms raised. A receptacle. Raven locks swung, pushed by an unseen attender. Dark eyes shifted beneath pale lids. Porcelain skin marred by tears of blood. Lashes curled, clotted. Puckered wounds danced along her flesh. Pain. Scarring, blood, puss, infection. Gaping, reaching, desperate flesh, mourning, hating, loving. Nude but for the ribbons in her hair. You wonder where she got them..?
Scars, wounds, pain. They're of her own doing, her own making. Talented with the knife, the eternal medication. If your hand does sin, cut it off, he said. She attempted to fillet off the offending flesh, to no avail. In the limbo of life and death, she did what she could to remain balanced. Too much life, too much death. Neither would do. To exist, one must dance precariously between the two, an art that humanity had yet to master. Perhaps Asia came closes, but the western world seemed oblivious to the concept of balance. Life and death, pain and joy. Each tugged on each other for dominance. Each pained her equally. To remain indifferent was a much easier task then to live. To exist is simplicity. To be -real- was a challenge. The key to this, was unity.
Ambiguity. A concept most of us hide from. An ideal so incomprehensible that we stick our heads in the sand and feign ignorance. If there was no life, there'd be no death. No shadows if not for light. No happiness if not for tragedy, no feeling if not for numb. Humanity attempts in many cases to ignore half of the equation. To run from sin, to hide in the light, to strive to be happy, and to live, disregarding that to truly be living, unity has to be attained. And so, in this world, mortals face loves that are bland. Diluted by an ignorance of loss. Lights that could be far much brighter if they dwelt in the dark. Lives that would attain harmony if they indulged in sin, and to truly live, unafraid of death. That fair child, is the key to eternity, to immortality, to true freedom. Love and life, death and hate, each emotion more powerful when experienced to its true potential, with its partner.
This woman, a dying, frail beast. Shunned and revered. Hunted and worshipped. A living expression of life, an escaping expression of death. She is essence, spirit mind and body. Confidence, paranoia, bittersweet. You want her, you hate her. Confused, conflicted. Reality is a rainbow, and your duty my child, is to savour, each of these colors. Cry, laugh, sing, mourn. Each is to be experienced in sequence, rather then half. You will find young one, if you listen to the words of the Madre, your life with take on new colors. You too, will arrive in wonderland. That secret society you've been searching for all your life.
Listen child. Open your ears. Cease to exist, and begin to live. I beg you.
And this story, having no beginning, will neither have an end.