Black liquid

LARS BRINK

Nov. 2011

 

With one hand in the sludge, I sit on my haunches. My head rests, slightly askew on the other hand. Which is supported by the elbow I have placed on the edge of the pool. I'm moving my hand slowly back and forth through the thick liquid. With the shape of a cup, I lift up my filled hand. I then drain it by tipping it so that the dripping liquid forms a narrow connection between me and the unknown, the beautiful, the dangerous. I empty the bowl completely before I putt it down into the batter. I straighten up my head and drown the other hand aswell. My back bends and my hair hangs after a while down in front of my face. I push my hands down, my arms deeper. Deeper. So deep that my hair touches the surface. I breath heavy, I snort and my bent legs are shaking. My hands move slowly through the thick liquid. Back and forth as if they were an own organism. My neck staples. My stomach rumbling. My kneecaps crackle and rub against the uneven ground. I take one last deep breath, bend my head against the chest and fly in an arc through the air. My eyes are closed and I can feel when my back is slowly breaking the surface of the thick liquid. The shiny ocean forms a wave. It is soft and it moves slowly. A soft, smooth, warm, polished dough. My hands that touched the wet surface has now been joined by my whole body and after the sweeping somersault it is now part of the mass. My face resting on the shiny surface. I see the stars. I reflect myself in the black space. The cold green dust sparkle, and I feel the breeze from the light, when it accelerates towards me. I close my eyes and let me be entirely covered by the black thick dripping liquid.