The light is on. In my head, the light is on. I turn on its axis, like the beacon in a lighthouse, shining in a circle. A circle of light, the shape of my consciousness. What land is touched by that light? What land, laid out before me, ready to be travelled when the sky is bright? For now, it is only a circle described in my head. But the light is on.

I have ticked forward. One eternal second on the clock. The small thing that feels like forever.

In this space, I will write in the air. And my words will be a spell. And the spell will create. I see prismatic symbols. Am I writing or reading? I will gather it all in mental arms and fling it out again to scatter upon the ground around me. Glowing runes cast by the magician in my head. The one who turned the light on.

The light is on. See it living in my skull? Escaping like music from a party, from my ears, from my eyes. Coursing down my throat to fill my lungs, illuminating me like a paper lantern, my blood etched on my skin like dark roots. Ancient caligraphy. Is my name written there? Or are names forbidden here? Does change make them coarse and useless? I am changing, slowly, participating subtly in infinity. Mysterious contributions to the unknown quantity. Yes, names would be irrelevant. Irreverent.

The circle is enough for now. The circle of my light. And why not? Why seek to possess all the light and everything it touches? It’s all reflected here anyway, the fractal pieces echoing together, vibrating at the frequency of the universal now. My head buzzes with the sympathy. Is this what it feels like to be loved by everything? Is my tiny circle a kiss?

I will raise my hand to my lips and send my glittering reply.