quicksand was made by the devil


Blue Hole

Also called “Devil’s Puddle,” the Blue Hole is located southern New Jersey, in the Winslow Wildlife Management Area. Many legends surround this mysterious body of water, and it is alleged that it is the famed Jersey Devil’s portal back to hell. Other legends state that the pool is bottomless, that the water is freezing year-round, and that strange whirlpools will attempt to suck down swimmers into the pool’s depths. Some say the pool has a bottom, but is made of fine “sugar sand” that acts like quicksand. Visits to the pool report crystal clear water and an unsettling stillness to the pond. There are no signs of life in its waters. Decades ago, it was a popular swimming hole for locals, but slowly gained its creepy reputation over the years. With its creepy stillness and oddly clear water, it is easy to see how the Blue Hole could cause uneasiness in its visitors.

Are you there, god? It’s me, sorrow.
It’s been awhile.
And I’ve left 42 messages on your voicemail,
and this is getting exhausting,
but I was hoping you’d get back to me.
In a dream, in a dream, in a vision
as I lay in bed on a cold Tuesday night,
awake next to loneliness
who sleeps her nightmares away every day at dusk
and still chokes on the images in her sorry mind despite it.

Are you there, god? It’s me, self-contempt.
I’ve hand crafted this deprecation of my own being
so that it fits into the palm of my hand,
carrying it around with me and squeezing
until my knuckles are white
like the sheets I pull over my head every night.
Go away, go away I whisper to no one
as she slips beneath the covers
and wraps her spindling arms around me.
I wanted to reach out to you today,
but my arms dissolved before me
and became the quicksand I drown in,
and so I pulled back into myself and sank like a stone.

Are you there, god? It’s me, the devil herself.
As a child longing for something
bigger than the thoughts in her head,
who couldn’t stretch her arms wide enough
to tell how much love she had to give,
I believed in you.
And now this bitter wretch of a woman
sinks beneath the soil that once cradled her bare feet.
I’ve made friends with the worms,
shook hands with the decaying bones beside me.
I’ve given to you my every notion,
and you never even bothered to call back.
—  The Skeptic’s Prayer // 5/4/16


Taichou, I wish you were here today.

I think you would’ve liked today, sir—Seireitei is all aglow, dressed in the dawnlight gold. The air is light—a seasalt breeze; the kind of air that made you feel better, the kind that reminds me of you nowadays—and the grass is not quite as green as it used it to be–

–But Seireitei is healing, taichou. The grass is growing back, even if it’s only in patches.

I woke up this morning feeling heavy-hearted, sir. It was as if the empty spaces you left really had emptied and turned into vacuums. Sorrow isn’t a quicksand fall or seeping-into-skin downpour; it’s empty. Grief and her sisters are dust-devils, with hungry maws that swallow the sun. Black holes advancing on dying stars–

Nii-sama has left a branch of cherry blossoms by my doorstep; goodwill and protection and a reminder of the brighter, more beautiful things in life.

(I’ve left it by your grave)

Say, taichou, do flowers ask anything of us when we pass between the worlds? Had they asked anything of you? Do you think the universe ever allows for rest, for the lost and the missing?

Taichou, I wish you were here today—but  maybe you were.

With love,

Kuchiki Fukutaicho.