Can We Google It? Yes, We Can!

The longest night has almost reached its end.

I stand at my first home and await my first true morning.

I stand firm, I have decided, but I have turned away.

I do not fear it, but I cannot face it.

I wait.

The day is stirring on the moors behind me, and I wait to feel the first rays of morning upon my naked back. My skin glows like the pale sliver of moon that still hangs in the distant west. My clothing lies discarded and forgotten along the path I tread alone. I stand as a newborn, unclothed and utterly open.

Chill autumn air wraps around me, but I offer it no embrace. Damp soil sucks at my feet like a corpse’s kiss, but I offer it no warmth of my own. Sharp granite stones bite into my soles, but I do not feed their thirst. Earth, water, and wind can take nothing from me, and they have nothing more to offer me. They are futile, and I ignore them.

Thus, I have returned to Bodmin Moor to find fire. Memories are here as well, but I have no need of them. I need fire, but not one kindled by human hands, nor one made by my own. Nor can I use those nature offers, whether they be forged in the bowels of the earth or thrust down from the heart of the sky. Time and again, those fires have proved to be as futile and as false as every other earthly thing.

No, I have returned to my first home to seek the true fire.

I have come to find my first true morning.

I have stripped, and now stand naked as a newborn to feel the sun’s fire.

My naked back trembles now as the hills in front of me climb up out of night’s shadow. Their tops brighten, and I see the ancient granite tors flashing against the retreating darkness. I remember them standing straight and new and know that behind them lies deep shadow. I am tempted, but like the tors I stand immobile. I know that the darkness they offer is only temporary, and I await a more permanent gift.

First light touches more of the landscape in front of me. I imagine dew on the rolling heather-strewn moors sparkling like stars. The thought calms me, and I search the western sky a final time. I spy the hem of night’s cloak on the horizon, a thin dark band where a few stars linger. The familiar sliver of moon still hangs there. I pretend it is watching me, and I feel comforted.

The skin on the nape of my neck suddenly tingles. The fine hair on my arms and legs prickle and stand erect. My flesh feels awake, engorged by the half-light that begins to surround me. The sun is rising, and the moors continue to brighten. On the heather in front of me, a dim outline is gradually taking shape. It is barely there, but I recognize it.

I have not cried since before I was driven from my first home here so long ago, but my eyes burn now as though they would try to force tears where none could ever be. I know the shape being born at my feet. It is my shadow, a harbinger of the dawn at my back.

Every inch of my skin has come alive. I relish the pain coursing hotly through me like blood did so long ago. I laugh with joy at the feeling. I stretch my arms out to the side as though I am about to fly from the edge of a precipice. My back no longer trembles. My legs are straight. I am steady now.

The first beams of sunlight touch my shoulders.

My true morning has come at last.

The fiery rays hiss into me like freshly forged iron blades thrust into water. The last thing I see before my body bursts apart is my black shadow lying upon the dew-strung heather.

Then, everything turns to light.