paris, brulé-t-il?

I know you are down in a deep pit, I know that nothing matters but the pit, not even the fact that you are in the pit. You want nothing but to watch the dark walls and to drown in reminiscence. You want to reminisce on the future, sure to have lost it. You want to hope the past, sure to be lived. You just want to stay still and –as rumour has it- watch your life pass before your eyes as it does on your deathbed.

You want to know you’ve died and you dream of not living. Your mercy is blunt; you long to stop as you’ve lost your way, out of fear. Just to stop for a moment before the devil and the beasts start to hunt you down. When the ghosts of the past look like the spirits of the future, you want not to stand in front of the mirror, but to hide behind it. Your head and feet are ensnarled, you lurch; you want to watch the things you run from, come after you as you cannot see the path you run to. You want to know that they are behind and in their graves their sleep is sore. Like graveyard watchers in old times you want to be sure that they stay put and you want to wait on their graves where hollow bodies lie, to ensure they never make their way out. You dig fresh graves, in the candle light of your torch. You hope you’ll be able to put them back in their tombs, yet you don’t want to see that you can use the pick and shovel for anything else but to dig. But, deep inside you crave that they come out of the graves and pull you in with them, like every felon burdened with their felony. You want to show your craft to the world, you want everyone to appreciate the exquisite evil you’ve accomplished to bring on yourself and then to curse you, for you have exhausted your endowment to make this on your own whilst digging nameless graves.

Then, you are just like me; just like the driver of the bus you took, just like the rest of us. Like us all who have spent their days to learn thousand crafts, who, then, slice themselves in the cobweb of their first sin. You are human. You are like all of us who’d die to exist yet cannot bear to. Just a human: A mediocre, crying, laughing, sleeping, sour-stomach-having human. A human who hopes the past, remembers the future. A metabolism evolved out of carbon and protein molecules, a carbohydrate addict, a serotonin dependent, just like me, just like the next person. Your hair grows; you cry down in the pit, you cut your toe nails. Just like everyone else. You are such a dreamer to stand in front of the fridge, so that maybe something you want to eat would appear. And a true realistic to be sure that there is no God. A manager desiring the best parking spot, a worker cleaning the toilets. You do your time in coalmines, right after you eat in ivory towers. You dig cloisters; call them tunnels. You dry tomatoes on the balcony and claim you could fly with a single wing. You tell stories of climbing the highest mountain and you sleep in the deepest pit. You are human. You have an amygdala, a brain stem and a hippocampus, all in regular sizes. There are times you act to their wishes, and times they act to yours. You are everybody, you rule the world, you don’t even want to realize, yet your pillow is soaked with the tears of “Why me?” You spend one third of your life in bed like everybody else, once you are out of the bed, you set yourself apart from them. This is how you chose to know it; or else you cannot find how to put up with the anguish of existing. You are exactly like me, with faults and crafts. You are me, I am them, we are all identical, yet, we’d carve out our veins before we confess.

Sinner! Sinful! Nobody’s innocent. Neither are you. Neither a personal saviour shall come to take us, nor have we the time to wait. And all await -murmuring “let’s go!” All is too done in the exhaustion of the suspense -none mentions the going. We are pilgrims remained behind; we are woods deserted; we are quills parched of ink; we are disciples ill-disciplined.

We are in the lap of our first sin, trying to sleep with intimidation and fear. There is no one to sprinkle us with a dash of water. There are no cabins to run for confession in which God’s vessels sit hands on their knees waiting. There are no houses with high belfries that we can bow and enter to repent. No fortresses of redemption with sky-high domes. We are all alone. Blessing is from me to you, from you to me; roads in-between are snow-covered. Our sleighs are red rusted. I am you, you are me. Forgiveness is within; we are unaware. Curtains over our seeing eye; gloves on our holding hand. We are on the road, with nowhere to go, but the road. You belong to me and I am yours.

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