She.
Her.
Yin.
Dark.
Cold and chaos.
The night, the brooding, the deep, the receptive.
Eros, as Jung would say.
Feminine, though some object.
She is the birthplace of manifestation. She holds it. Nourishes it. Nurtures it until it is born, stark and fresh. It’s skin gleaming with the milky residues of creation.
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Once, the Universe was whole.
Everything was one, singular expression. Everything and nothing, in the same, exquisite instant.
Until it burst its seams, searching for the experience of relationship. To give and receive. To be, and not to be. For stillness, and action.
Every particle that spilled from that primal cataclysm held a vibration of Eros, or logos. Yin, or yang. Feminine, or masculine.
This, is the principle of all creation, of all manifestation. Nothing can exist without these two forces.
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Eros had been somewhere in the darkest corner of the universe for sometime now. While she would say ‘somewhere’, really, she was nowhere. She’d become completely empty of all references and only knew what she desired. Her heart, her Soul, had led her there.
The day she happened upon her desire, something had changed. Her hair had been unbrushed for what seemed like eons, and she’d been thinking to herself how much she missed him. She missed how she felt with him around. She missed that with him, there was so much art, and now there was none.
Her womb was full when he was in her presence, and with that, so was her world. It wasn’t him she missed, so much as what happened when they were together. Magic, it would seem.
Eros decided that she wished to make the perfect art, pristine, beautiful, luxurious. She allowed herself to desire it fully, completely, and stripped herself of everything that intoxicated her space with impossibility. The flowers that had died. The books beside her bed that she’d never found herself reading. The watch on the nightstand of a man she once knew.
Her desire became so enlivened, so necessary, that everything that was not so, slipped away.
Until she found herself empty, at the edge of the universe.
In the darkness, she held her desire. She held the tension of wanting it so deeply and yet knowing that nothing, No-Thing, was the path to her requited wish.
The tension, she found, was largely tempered by the adornment of her field. She found gold and palladium, remnants of stars that struck her eye and skipped her heart a beat. She pressed metals to her skin and her cheeks flushed as her field became more magnetic, drawing and inviting in greater beauty.
She felt an overwhelming sense of her own attraction, and yet there was something more. She felt like a prize.
*******************
Eros sat in the darkness as comets and debris would pass. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel lonely and the emptiness would yield to fear. What if it never happened, she thought, what if my creation never lived?
A great space rock tumbled her way and merged with her field, settling in her skin before exuding from her pores as big, putrid gas vents.
That was the fear, she thought to herself. She thought it best to return to her desire.
Eros learned to value her desire, truly, fully, honouring it as an echo of divinity. Whenever she thought of it, her field would glow brighter, incandescent, sending a cosmic signal for him to arrive.
She adorned herself, in ways that made her happy. She remembered as a girl they’d tell her what he would like, but out here, it made no sense. In the darkness of the Universe, the rules had no purchase.
She’d only smile if it brought her joy, and when she smiled, the field would spark.
She emptied herself more, and more. Until the concepts she’d devoured on earth became redundant. What is art? She thought to herself. What is pristine? No longer would she believe her art had to be on a canvas. No longer would she believe that pristine meant colouring within the lines.
She knew the shape of her desire, she knew what it felt like. She could no longer trust her eyes or the narrative, as the visions diluted and she sank further into nothing.
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Eros became the womb, empty of all but one lonely egg. She’d take nourishment from passing stardust, knowing that when creation landed within, her blood would pulse through the umbilical cord of connection.
Tiny microbes would come to her, offering her their cells for creation.
“No, thank you” she would answer. Her requirements were specific. She oozed integrity. There was a nurturing grace in her ‘no’. No judgement, just not a match.
And then, one day, she was struck. It was violent almost, she thought to herself. Not at all the gentle soirée she’d once romanticised. He was not there, and then he was. It was instant. Shocking.
He, the electro to her magneto, had found his way within her. Had she not emptied her reservoirs of judgement she’d probably never have received him so abundantly. He was different to her. There were no soft edges, no tender contemplations, not a moment of reflection on the way her hair hung low on one side.
Suddenly, her desire left the space of nothing and became quite tangibly something. It wasn’t a canvas, she realised, but a world. Beautiful and verdant and pristine. A miracle.
She felt his arm wrap around her side and quickly push her from the path of a rogue meteor.
I must soften more, she thought. He’s got this.
