The Nature of Sacrifice

It was a moving train, stilled as its home station. Old, Bettina green and black like the piers, but filled with thick woods of ceremony, blood and dirt, bark reaching up high past the open ceiling, where the others invisible in trees found themselves watching us. No windows, but pale, far off sunshine. It didn’t matter, I wasn’t Here anymore.

The experience was a ritual simple and pure as the snow that fell. It fell from a higher sky, like golden stars shimmering in neutrality, floating down and changing from gold to white, a rushing stream. All over us. You were there, and you were as Christ. I was too, though I couldn’t see to tell. The snow came down harder in its stars, caking on your hands, which were mine. Hurting, from the intense cold of it. Stinging our faces. I told you without speaking that we had to bear the pain, and you did.

Then, you were in a hot fiery furnace, aching your eyes and tumbling limbs at me as to why. I placed you there, but I was in the fire with you. You rolled around as a pig without a spit in that rusty orange barrell and came back again; you were re-forged, made into yourself once more. The cold was gone. We joined up as humans and tried to make the train connections to the show. Timetables, conductors and our starry snowfall; Christ burning alive without a cross - we came back from the abyss like gods, though still ourselves the whole while, and not on time.

But we had each other for the long train ride out east, smelling like ocean.
It was a good show.