Making Love to the Goddess

It’s like you want to scream and weep and piss and cum and gnash your teeth on the cold tile floor and hug and tear off your flesh rip out your eyes and break the bones in your hands and hug everything in the world even as you smother it and squeeze it to death because everything is so fucking glorious and so insanely wonderful and beautiful and painful that your heart could explode and burn your very being out with raw transcendent fire, screeching through all of time with the single, spacious everything of universal creation.

It’s like fuck, man, thank God this is. Now kill me because I can’t fucking stand it anymore. The currents of subtle flame are tearing me apart and I can feel it. Liquid ecstasy engulfs me and I can’t breathe, there’s too much outside to breathe in and not enough emptiness inside to accommodate my yearning for the peace of the infinite so there’s nothing to do but collapse the boundary between self and other, inner and outer, to attain the perfection of that which is beyond the eternal. But once that’s done there is no one left to appreciate the transcendent glory of being because without a separate observer observation is an impossibility, a nonsense, for that is the nature of things, and so we must erect another flimsy, brutal barrier that we might look at ourselves and scream with the irrepressible intensity of a million burning suns at the ecstatic impossibility of our own divine glory.