miraculous

Your brain reaches the end of something. It’s tether, you suppose. You have been awake too long. In this intoxicated lucidity even the voices of loved ones take on the violence of an assault. Your own thoughts become rapists of silence. The projector illuminates the darkness of this dark room. A single square of deep blue on the white wall gone black with shadows.

Whenever you access this vaguest vagueness of sensation you are rapt by its acute chronicity. You always feel this way and you are always fleeing from feeling this way. You think of the times in supermarket checkout queues when the urge to burst into tears seized you inexplicably.

This is the feeling that comes in the silences. You welcome it and cultivate it now. It is the most real that you feel as the tears want to rise up and be shed, to pour themselves out of this vessel ridden with its daylight certainties.

To burst in to tears. The suggestion of a movement: to come tearing out of this flesh with the explosive power of a space shuttle breaking orbit, tearing through the upper atmosphere and out there into the void that is not out but up and over and enveloping. The movement shreds through the little ducts in the little eyes that see all the little sorrows and tries not to see the major calamities.

But the idiom betrays the physiological referents. It suggests that the tears are already there waiting to be inhabited. These are not your tears. They belong out there in the outside that cancels itself as outside.

To burst is to violently break apart with an irrepressible force one cannot control. If I burst “into” tears then the force is that of a pressure gradient, a kind of irresistible crossing beyond one’s own membranes. It is not a movement out into something but a going inward. It is you that is the outside that is being drawn inward, burrowing deeper down into an interiority that is not yours. The inner world of the tears themselves.

You let go. To what had you been holding on? There was nothing to hold onto but the fierceness of the grasp. The nails dig into the hand’s meat. It is the hand’s blood that bleeds.

You feel your brain looking for words to name the sensation. Words as names as secret codes. Every name is a mantra. Behind the name the sensation disappears. Smothered by thought things do not look like the torturers that they are. This sensation has nothing to do with you; named it belongs only to thought.

Thinking becomes the perfected anaesthesia. Thoughts are not thought they are injected. They collapse the veins and poison the liver. Someone tells you that you are clever and the thought grows fat with satisfaction. Pleasure belongs to cognition and so too do the emotions. You have never felt anything since birth.

The vaginal canal dilated monstrously in the brutal plasticity of a woman’s body. You emerged screaming and soon learned speech to better silence your only truthful emission. Words are all dissimulations of the first scream. Every system and every coping mechanism is another attempted re-entry to uterine bliss. You despise junkies for the ease with which they slip back into it: become immortal, invulnerable and immune.

It is behind the eyes. Windows to the soul. Tears must be the soul’s escape. If you no longer cry it means nothing. Don’t worry about your soul. It was never there. It was the grace before conception. The human gestation period is nine months; consider this long enough to perfect deception.

You wake and it is an act of treachery. You dress and it is a betrayal. You walk to the kitchen and drink coffee and it is a lie and an armour. You spend hours penned into your cage. You complain about your job and feel so good about it you could burst. You develop a system of complaining- a critique. Inside these poor artificial wombs you don’t have to make the only complaint you want to make. You trade the little miseries for the deeper miseries.

People don’t hang themselves very often, i

nstead they play videogames and dream about holidaying i

n the Canaries.

They are warm when they come and they erase the world. They make it go wavy, give it a sheen of translucence. You fight them back. You are afraid of drowning the world. You are afraid the thought of drowning the world proves there is nothing in you. There is nothing inside. And no inside.

People tell you you are isolated. You don’t go out much now and when you do you aren’t outside anyway. It’s all movement through one medium. The medium moves through itself. If you could speak in your own voice you would still not say anything about it, but you would want to. It makes you ashamed. Relax, there are no people to be met and no society to withdraw from.

You are thinking about being alone one day. You dream of saying what it is- what is this sensation? this attempt to flee this sensation? The mouth that says “I am alone” is already lost in the swarms of communication. You would carve it on your skin if it didn’t serve as an intensification.

You carry with you the shadow of your own abortion. Is it this that tries to burst forth and to gush? In truth the act of crying is too vital and it only serves to lift the spirits. The body is an endless con-man.

Whose thoughts are these, and whose images? In modern myth vampires had to await and invitation. Your head is crammed full of debris and you are a psychic hoarder. Everything in there you have gathered from the wasteland of culture, gifts mounting up and never given. Given to who? You smell the smell of piss. Indefinite and climatological. Have you ever left this little house? You smash your skull of its walls.

The skull smashed against the skull. Every attempt at anything at all is just another laceration. Self-harm as existential axiom.

Happiest in flagellation; exiles on the run through the interior; who is the nurse to these wounds? whose tears to bathe the cut of the umbilicus still oozing nasty. Baby dreams of mommy whose naked body the adult fears.

A song is sung by a voice you never took possession off, and falls into a whisper.

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