Transfiguration

Transfiguration

The day was on the fringe of timelessness, frigid with glaring white sanctity. A brightness more radiant than any bleach, almost fusing my eyes shut. I had to walk through endless, tangled trenches of snow, higher than my head.
Through every corridor, the light headed straight for my eyes and flooded my corneas. Through squinting glints, I could make out the shapes of buildings just enough to navigate through the troughs.
And so quiet. Not a sound but sharp, soulless wind. The howling follows you, burrows into your head and reminds you, there is no life here. This is the edge of oblivion.
At a dead end, I feel my way around a trench wall and climb up. At the top, there is a building, the roof caved in, bombed out almost. No people around, so I crawl through the window and under a broken support beam. Inside, it’s warm like a shrimp bisque. Knocked over shelves, busted walls and insulation freely littered down every aisle.
I travel through the ruins, careful not to disturb any artifacts. I feel hunger, but something holds me back. I have no survival instinct other than to pass through ruins to the other side. Stepping over baskets and tilted doorways and spoiled fruit.
Once I uncover where these fragments of history end, I will step back into the searing, raw light, able to transfigure into a new form. Leave this infertile wilderness.
First, I must give up earthly needs. I must not eat.
But like an animal, I throw myself on all fours and devour the moldy, worm-infested fruit. I chew it down, juicily, like a broth. A different spirit has consumed me, taking over.
When I am disgustingly full, I can only start to gag. I will vomit soon, leaving another mark that I have failed in my goal.