In the flux.

Through the spinning he had lost himself. In that claustrophobic void there was only him and not him – the other. Soon, nothing would be left. No memory would remain to feel the loss of. The blank screen of his face transmitted mute slates; an optician’s slotting of lenses. Better...or worse?  

With each flowing, concentric ebb of his body another fractal pierced a memory. The first one insinuated its way through conjoined flesh and bone down to the roots of the emotion it had sought. All was washed briskly away in a disinfected flourish. A blue purple haze tipped each arm of the star. It rubbed a little at the ends like the thumbprints of a flame. Five separate tendrils; each one emanating from its deeper purple heart. Each one with its own path.

Tendril two sought out the first inner layer. Guilt. It was always that way with him. The soft tips touched themselves like a finger to a bubble. The filmy edges of his memory were pierced and guilt came flooding out in great oceans of yellow. It ventured further in. Through layers of thin armour it smoothly dissected faces, actions, consequences. The weight of the ocean release hit him squarely, every rib taking its own personal strain, dragging him further and further down through his past. The flesh of memory melted over him, soaking through him, cleansing.

Tendril three was less subtle. A sharp, gnarled ugly piece glinting metallically as it made straight for layer two. Loss. This was another ocean. An empty, starless ocean. The water gave in. The jerked, furious slashings of this steel finger were an absurdity amidst the airy emptiness; a puppet ruled by a volcanic, screeching hand; an echo in the red dustbowl.

Tendril four sparked into life. A buzzsaw drone accompanied its jerking, gnawing pathway into the layer nearest the marrow. Pride. A journey this far just to find the Judas sitting at His right hand. The tendril worked its busy way through his mirror face but the mute slate did not flicker. This silver prince who sat at the root of everything was gradually effaced without triumph or regret. A slow, inexorable process was drawing to a close amid a fanfare of purple scintilla.

The final tendril burst all the seals that been stopped up for years. The jellies and glues gave way in the tubes and the ebb and the flow began again.

This cleansing influenza.

 Those purple, purple sparks.

The slow ending and instant beginning of his spinning journey were wrapped like warring lovers in that very instant of release. And in that whirling dreamer’s dream, the dreamt was set free. For better or for worse.