AT ETERNITY’S GATE

musings on religious themes and metaphors.

the other night, as i drifted into sleep, an imposing plant with a foreboding stillness loomed in my mind's eye. its roots and branches terminated in mouth-like openings, adorned with the sharpest teeth i have seen yet. "i wish i could paint this vision on canvas," i thought, and then my world turned dark.

i carry a great worry about losing myself. the delicate art of preservation eludes me, a skill perhaps tainted by the Spanish sacrifices of 1492 and obliterated in 1697 when the Spanish ceded the Western part of the island—Haiti—to the French. this transfer of power sealed by treaty and blood, after a prolonged war, perpetuated a sacrificial cycle, leaving little time for restfullness—a necessary condition for memory and processing. the years from 1803 to 1820 witnessed a civil war, transforming erasure into both a tool and a curse. the sacrificial children were fruiting, but neither heaven nor hell offered solace.

yet, this story extends beyond wars, unrest, and curses. life itself is an eternal sacrament. the metamorphosis of flesh and the cultivation—visual, auditory, smell, taste, and touch—of emotions, pleasure, and desire bears fruit. the mystery of sacraments (sacred things) seems unfair, but it is not lawless. the erotic is never without law—the way some places are wretched, and some others are anointed.

across Haiti and the Diaspora, the sacrificial children have endured high stress, navigating through an onslaught of negativity and monstrous conditions. overt and covert wars have left my family and others in different forms of precarity—empty hands, pockets, dispirited, loveless. our minds, scrambled and heated, make it impossible for me to advise on what to keep or discard. writing, then, becomes a necessary exercise in memory (truth), triage (truth), and a practice to maintain a pure heart (dare). i find myself scattered among the visions and sounds that jolt me into feeling, hunting the Archive on a relentless pursuit.

Desire is so different when God bore you hungry.

— Yves Olade, Belovéd.

i am compelled to share every retrieved fragment of myself with the world. like the first human, awakened from a deep slumber to a world half-built, my experiences, loves, and losses stand as a testimony—a proclamation that this happened, and it was real. the Archive, however, presents an emptiness that offers no sympathy, but when it yields, i savour a generosity that is almost sacramental.

yet, alas, sharp teeth in my throat contort and morph. my hunger remains insatiable, immune to any satisfaction found in fruit, honey, bird, or fish. i crave blood, even if it's my own. this isn't an excuse for self-violation or harming others; rather, it's like feeding from my shedding. paraphrasing Agrippa, 'some virtues belong to the living, others to the dead'—a thought that resonates when considering the pelican, who is said to revive her young with her blood. my mother is a pelican, and my flesh remembers.

perhaps what i seek isn't blood, but something equally vital—marked by a passion only red can penetrate.

to be continued.