Level 7 - Loquacious
Join Date: Apr 2012
Cautiously peering through the piercing, sand-laden wind storm, the late afternoon desert sun beckons my direct gaze with its solemn stillness. With its intensity obfuscated from the grainy haze, you can stare straight into the muzzled sun. It holds the most sharply defined circumference, like a gleaming marble white medallion laid over the eye of a dying god.
I stand, slack-bodied, lips dry and head-spinning, entranced by the lucency of the pearly orb. The only thing I feel is the spirit of the desert as it breathes hot and swathes me in a lotus-palm-shaped whirlwind of sandy, needling microdermabrasions. Way off in the distance, direction unknown, I can hear the undulating melody of a nearby minaret's Muslim Azan as it resonates and resounds into the empty, unbound, chamber-esque dust bowl that engulfs me.
The trance-inducing trifecta of near-syncopal dehydration, the spellbinding sphere of the sun, and the hypnotic harmony of Salah seems to segregate me from my body as, simultaneously, I sink deeper and deeper into a void that shifts, in pulses, between pitch black and multicolor and I float up, up, and away . . . seeing a double vision that yo-yos between seeing my body, posed and transfixed, in a scorching vortex of sand and seeing a scattered, static white void that numbs me. . . all while I’m drowning in a well of eerily enchanting, drawn-out prayers to Allah that sweep my mind off away from my body.
This experience is so violently tranquil and pure. My lower half is sinking into a bottomless hole of synesthetic quicksand as my upper-half is siphoned into an endlessly deep portal-esque perimeter of the milky-white sun that is roiling hot like a vat of thick, yangy molasses.
My sensations are throbbing in central-to-peripheral waves of dense anesthesia and searing paresthesias, I begin to feel as if the acute circumference of the solar rim is the event horizon of another dimension’s black hole into which I am being spaghettified. One moment, I sense a pulsating node deep within my pelvis behind my genitalia, like my sacral chakra is being magnetized south and submerged by an increasingly heavy weight; the next moment I only feel an upwards tug from a central point deep within in my brain, like God’s invisible hand is dragging me by my third eye up into the heavens.
The loudspeakers drone and echo louder and louder, “Allaahaahahahhhuu Akbarrrrr,” like an ever-crescendoing shepard’s tone that is either carrying me aloft towards the sun or vibrating the sand to bury me deeper under the desert dunes. I feel a pressure in my chest and I imagine my face groaning and screaming silently as it stretches, sags, and melts as if under the weight of two million g-forces. I hear an electrostatic buzz and a loud, warping “vvvoip!” that sounds like an old, boxy cathode television turning off. . . and then there’s only blackness and silence.
Say hello to my frontal lobe.