Christ

In the swampwoods God stretches his back. He cracks his jaw and lifts and curls each of his fingers and toes. He fumbles with his footing, becoming adjusted to the body which only moments ago belonged to the hermit.

The yin and yang of the lord has been inversed. Hook, line, and sinker. The hermit had given himself unwittingly and without resistance to the magnificence of the box’s divinity, and God had given himself, with a huge sigh of relief, and a rush of excitement, to a life of mortal living.

Even for God, swapping vessels is a tough procedure. The body is a complex machine which survives off of a self-contained power source, and responds to the whims of an incorporeal soul. To switch souls on a body is like switching the water in a fish tank. The chemical balance gets disturbed and the organs are shocked. If you’re not careful, you’ll lose the tank.

That being said, the hermit’s body looks dang good on God. It’s as though God made the hermit specifically for the purpose of inhabiting. The beard screams God. Time developed and unsheared. The most talented of sculptors could not have chiseled a more accurate accouterment. It is Old Testament magnificent! It streams like a river of springy twigs down God’s gaunt and puffy face, nesting sun spots in its graying aerie, connecting, like a still life waterfall, the nostrils of the face’s bulbous, strawberry shaded nose above its chapped upper lip. It makes a rainbow of brown shades above spouting fountains of gospel. It is a safety net receptacle for puffing eye bags, serving as a depository for the explosions of tearing strain and life struggling amazement. It has a regal reality to it, a coating of grime, dirt, lice, and scabs, which serve as barnacle badges of pre-life warfare, laying out a humble mantle for the crown halo.

Accumulated emotions seep through the rotary wheels of his eyes. The perceptive observer sees the spirit of God elevated beyond the flesh. A steadily burning fire burns within. Unmatched vivacity and wisdom, compassion and glory sing. The hermit’s former weariness blossoms as delicate petals, unfolding out of stamen shoots of phallic supremacy. Temple spires stab the sky, popping pupil glares and topping off God’s new, emaciation paced presentation with windmills of harmonic sensitivity and strength like cherries atop a grace so befitting.

Within his hands he holds the box which now hold the hermit’s essence. A soul growing clear in divinity. What once was him now floats in the primordial vacuum of light, bodiless, brainless, senseless, and intangible. The hermit’s world has become the box. His self has become its contents. His life has become a dream. He is awake without being able to distinguish wakefulness from sleep. What he sees is seen without eyes. What he feels is an inner/outer baroque blitzkrieg – like an orgasmic wave colliding upon him from all sides, swelling at all times.

Conscious awareness has vanished. It evades the hermit like true peace of mind evades us all. He is the breath of the conscious brain. He is the spirit of awareness itself. Within his realm of active death he bathes, lulling in an intense and all-consuming comfort. The most splendid comfort of all. The comfort of formlessness. A nonsensical fabrication of the night. A non-lucid and accepting sleep. Reality undistinguished from schizophrenia. Partaking everything as a creation of the self. The awareness of God. The reason so many prayers remain unanswered. The momentous snowball rolling down the mountain of time, surviving off of its own progression, an accumulating and expanding universe.

It is the master’s throne. The hermit crowned supreme monitor. Freedom.