the eye is a travelling window: it records the silent film about the passage
from darkness to another darkness - though some scenes are blurred, some obscured;
you cannot have both happiness and truth: you have to choose; choose happiness!
good things happen to good people - believe it! everything I’ve been struggling with -
this emptiness inside - it’s gone! you see? no one can break me now;
a story isn’t a story if it hasn’t got a positive message!
we attract what we are, the life-coach is telling everyone.
books were written on the subject, dreams were woven and torn.
he thinks he can dabble in darkness as long as no one sees the needle marks.
but I know better.
she is in my silent film too. I watched her from a distance and I can say
what happened was her fault.
Ophelia was a blank canvas - one could write anything on it:
a tragedy or a wife’s little life with noisy brats tugging at her skirt
but she suffered from an inability to be;
like most good daughters, she was a keeper of family secrets;
she knew how much her daddy loved her -
that secret love seeped through her whole being - hour after hour, day after day,
until it became a swamp of self-loathing:
definitely not fertile ground for a happy married life.
daily events fleetingly illuminated
by a sunbeam reflected on the string of pearls
that I wear under my veil of darkness;
you have to work for a living, I tell my face in the mirror;
the stern clouds stare at me through the window;
you need un projet de vie, a viable plan in the competitive job market.
there’s no divine spark in you - stop wasting your time with art;
you’re just a thinking animal fighting for survival - we all are.
the thinking part is seldom of any use:
it breeds sadness, disenchantment, screams stuck in your throat;
sometimes even madness: a kind of toxic excitement
that grows black roots in your mind -
hundreds of dead wings burying themselves
deeper and deeper in your dreams, choking reality;
a keen self-awareness may yet save you
but how can you lift the curtain of smoke and deceit?
oh, the squalor and suffering they have wrought:
those who knew nothing, those of little faith…
there was a time when gods were walking among us;
now we feed on their ashes.
shadows rushing in darkening gardens,
breathless fall into the abysmal waiting;
a scent of blood and rotten apples in the air;
my father’s ghost riding a spider-horse
pierces the night with a shimmering arrow;
his eyes are closed but his purple lips move:
“we must dissent from apathy,
we must dissent from fear,” he whispers
into the white cups of the lilies;
roses tremble, screeching owls listen,
butterflies melt on the cold leaves.
a sinkhole opens at my feet.
“forgive my transgression -
shadows must not speak,” he repents
under the bloated moon.
road of no return, receive my father
the pale, the restless, the brave.
if only he knew: they never saw me,
they only saw what I can do for them;
father, I am afraid no more.