Gone on a Walkabout.

I am walking on the Milky Way.

Each tiny speck of dirt and sand reflects the moonlight overhead, the brown haze of grime momentarily lifted to reveal a soft glossy glow, like pearls, like ivory left lying around among the silent forms of cacti. No, they are stars—miniature stars, and if I wanted to I could dip my hand own and scoop up a handful of them. I could dig my feet into a galaxy—Vishnu knows my toes are sinking into the gleaming shards. I’ve gotten a bit bigger, a bit taller; I’ve started eating more, and my shell plates fill out better. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel more like an actual poleepkwa then an empty set of shell-plates. There’s a soldier inside this suit of armor. Would He be pleased at that? I’ve heard of control of the palate, reigning in of the carnal pleasures, but for the life of me I can never obey fully. If I can stop myself from eating, I cannot stop myself from drinking, or dropping acid, or acting immature and foolish and transitive. It’s always something that leaks out, something I can’t control or limit. So I take turns, day to week to month.

I think He would be pleased that I’ve decided to eat instead of blowing my mind even further out of my skull then it is at this point. My dharma isn’t to poison myself, I think. Well, that’s what I think now. It changes so very often—more then it should. A dharma isn’t like a shirt…you can’t pick and choose so that it matches your mood for the day. It’s permanent; it forces you to change around it. It’s a purpose. I’d like one of those. They sound nice. Would He mind that I’m wanting one? Does Vishnu take notice of what I desire or does He simply chalk it off as another failure on my part, another instance of my allowing desire to creep back into my life. I don’t know, and because of that I’m scared. If I ever see Him, I think I’ll ask, just to be sure. Of course, by then it’ll probably be too late, and I’ll have climbed my way up and down the ladder until I no longer remember the question. Reincarnation has its own dilemmas, just like a “traditional” heaven.

Everything’s rendered in black and white—there’s the soft glowing of the ground, the lamp of the moon, the velvet of the sky above. Then the dark silhouettes of cacti. Their shape makes me shudder a bit; it’s too human, too similar with arms raised, pipe in hand, or it’s too similar with arms held up in victory or outstretched in a warm embrace. The good and the bad images, and yet both are too real for me to go back and touch right now. Even Jack and Jill are too real, too certain and assured for me to think about right now. Later, perhaps. The crowd gathered here can wait while I think for a bit longer. Not too much longer, though…I wouldn’t want to keep this crowd waiting. No, they expect something, anything. Entertainment, horror, love, real love…anything. They expect something because I’m alive.

The world is rotating around me, spinning on and on and on, and all I can do is watch it twist and turn. Try as I might I can’t get the things to click, I can’t follow along. Is that because I’m moving in a different direction or that I’m not moving at all? I don’t really know.

When will I finally get answers to my questions?