The first time you ever did anything. What did it feel like the first time. The thing that cuts through this Cloud of Unknowing and penetrates the Heart of God. God being me, the Creator, in the act of Creation. Creation being that which imitates God. 

  Little Delia herself seemed to be, to herself, losing her ability to make conversation or even partially partake in conversation, and more lately, even to answer basic questions about her present day. Somebody might ask, ' so who's coming on the trip with you?', and Delia would, suddenly and disorientingly, not be able to remember anything about her plans, or who they were with, or anyone's name, or her own name, or her relation to this human standing in front of her waiting for a reply which she did not have. And in these moments little Delia would experience a such wave of repulsive distaste, nearly rage, towards people and their endless words, words, questions and answers, that it seemed she was stuck in a sick dream or time loop. questions about what? how are you? how do you live?

It was always interruptions. Ruptures in Athena's Cosmic Tapestry. Something Evil in their dumb dull speech. Each word, or gargled bastardization of word, was a drip of acrid poison polluting the Infinite Wet Earth.  What better time to burn it all down than the Present? (the meaning of the word present...somebody made this for you..do you like it?) At least one can enjoy the Witnessing of the Act. It is a virtue to hold the flame in the cup of one's open palm; see how when I try to grasp the flame, gripping tightly to that primordial symbol of consciousness, of the first I AM,  the Flame is Extinguished. 

Little Delia is a puppet, yes, a patchwork mess of dysfunction, but the hand that moves her is not above, invisible in the high darkness past the velvet curtains of this drama, no, Delia is moved by ten thousand greedy hands, breaking each others' fingers to get a hold on her, to throw her down in twisted classical repose of despair or to lift her up among clouds where the luckiest of lovers swim on their backs with the sun in their eyes. Delia often feels the indescribable sensation that her own slender hand is a little person. 

(I ascribe boundary to my mind & body. I ran under the empty underpass like a hyena. I steal energy from my future self. When I break down and hyperventilate, when the crisis of the impossibility of anything reveals itself, I wrap a big piece of cloth tightly around my mouth to muffle the noise. it's an act of restricting the boundary of one's mind and body, one's self, in the attempt to limit the influence one has on the world around them. The influence being that one might be heard, found out, persecuted.)

They wait around the corners of familiar places, places that imperceptibly weaken Delia's will--tiny overgrown alleys which remind her of childhood hiding places or rooms with white walls--and they reach between the cracks of floorboards and caress her neck and face in a way which ought to be loving and comforting but which instead strikes such a deep chord of disturbia in Delia that she’s reduced to the feeling which follows being groped, where one feels that they ought to have retaliated violently, but they did not, and instead they shriveled in shame & embarrassment, and are left feeling utterly small, weak, and alone.  It is when Delia finds herself in this state of believed powerlessness that the strongest of the ten thousand hands possesses her, taking her mind & body as its own.

Try this:   hold your left arm in front of you, elbow bent, with your left palm turned upward in a gesture of receiving. hold your right arm in front of you, elbow bent, with your right hand closed tight in a fist. squeeze your right hand as hard as you can. hold this for five full breaths, and then switch hands. 

All progressive movement comes from friction between opposing forces; that which we find below mirrors that which crowns us; the creation is the creator.