Prologue

Standard

I see soil and diamonds and blood and pale corpses, and it all calls to me so I can take note of it. Desolation will persist until I can colour those memories with one persistent colour, nay one persistent shade (for a colour can vary) which explains them beyond any doubt. There is a tablecloth on my memory (my dusty jagged memory); the tablecloth changes colours every so often, and through the multicoloured taffeta I interpret one thing in many ways.

Glowsticks and diamonds and vegetation and genitals and a departure and a return. The backdrop of a sun illumines, majestically, the white crystals that fall from the sky, and a snake-shaped rainbow colours the horizon, taunts the mourners as I am now taunting you, readers faithful yet uncompromising.

In great humility I stand silent, not uttering a word although my lips move and my tongue shivers as the white crystals hit my head and drench my cheek, camouflaging my cold heart with their wetness so I can be one with the mourning crowd that moves in circles in the mud, around a grave, uttering paeans to a God immortal and lamentations to a body no longer seen beneath the heavy damp soil.

I am so eagerly awaiting the night time and its deceptively liberating darkness, and from this moment, I suffer from a split and my shadow changes form, dispatches from the body, and the sun stands amazed at my power. I become a character.

The character blinks and between momentary instantaneous blinks dreams of a glorious night—as he has been doing for three days now, while he woke up, while he slept and dreamt, while he ate his breakfast and talked to the people that are around him often: his cousin, his dark-haired friend Y— who has only recently decided to open up fully in front of him, informing him of the dark crevices which inflamed her soul with sorrow like a gapping ulcer, his fair-haired tall friend R— who has long been secretly hinting at a possible relationship with him, talking to him sensually about her sexual adventures, letting her imagination have complete control over her tongue, narrating stories of imaginary love fests with boys closely resembling him, who, as he matter-of-factly  watches the mourners as an outsider camouflaged as an insider, bites his tongue accidentally and a small droplet forms in his eye, like the morning dew, and aptly so, it awakens him from his daydream of a fanciful night and brings him back to mournful setting of the graveyard; tough big men crying, family members holding each other in pathetic solidarity.

The tear finally begins to cascade down Dani’s cheek, making him feel proud to have the ability to muster a mask of sympathetic sorrow. And this day, as I have its narrator, will have to be postponed, as everything else will be. When responsibility calls, we should act.

But I can say that this is going to be a journey in an empty vessel which, as I narrate, shall slowly be filled up by a dialectic conversation between Apollo and Dionysus. Life is ruled by the dialectics to which the senses so lovingly and beautifully respond with a positive stimulus of excitement. Such big words love and beauty are, and surely not to be separated by two figures as Abstract as Apollo and Dionysus. But these two abstract figures carry with them such a tale of a long day and an even longer night. A day of sobriety and a night of intoxication (the dialectic has already begun!) seen through the eyes of Dani, a staunch advocate of Dionysus, and society shall be his opponent: his Apollo.

But reader, do not dare forget that, I, the narrator, am Dani as well, and I shall be as biased as love is biased towards madness. Give me no quarter as you read on, dissect me at will. Show more colours to the multicoloured taffeta tablecloth that adjusts and fixes my memory.

As a final note I must profess: Dani, as he leaves the cemetery, pours wine over the marble grave of some poor forgotten skeleton underground; the skeleton of an ancient storyteller. Wine droplets merge with diamonds and crystals and form a blood stained rebirth; the rebirth of the ancient storyteller, with traditions no more dead than him, his morals and values come to contend mine. Dionysus plays with fire and I must be gone for an undefined period of time. I leave like a person leaving his cherished pain, full of sorrow.

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