(November 21, 2006)
As Ouroboros sways in circles, reptilian lips - should reptiles, even the ones of legend, have lips - clutching its own curves, so she twists in her current iteration. However, she parts from the dragon in the nature of her movement: like a dog whose game ends prematurely when it finds its teeth clamped on its own flesh, the myth-beast faces confusedly inward, drawing ever further into itself. Her contrary body is shifting outward instead; she is caught in an endless dance of extrusion, unfurling feet-first from her own womb. The core is unimaginable, a point of light whence she flows, forming beginning and end simultaneously.
She rends herself to breach-born pieces as she digs her toes into the sky, blindly reaching for purchase between the stars, but her face never emerges from its own source. Muladhara pulls away from manipura while sahasrara remains buried within and behind both, leaving spirals of skin and interlocking vertebrae exposed without a unified mind to grant them a sense of purpose. Yet she still feels hope when she breathes into herself, despite the inconclusive nature of her eternal birth; while Ouroboros is a being of entropy, trapped in consumption, she will expand as much as the elasticity of the universe will allow. As she curls into ever-widening orbits, knees pressed against her chest then arcing away behind her back, she reaches outward, knowing that the wind will lap at steadily more of her frame and feeling pleased with this constant shift in perspective.
She stares forever into her own shredded innards, but that is the price demanded for her permanent growth. She pays it without complaint, because she can smell the shrinking lizard's tears.