A Clash of Scenes


I have an exam tomorrow, but I cannot start to think about seriously until I spit, mindlessly what’s on my mind. I do not care if what I’m writing turns out to be nonsense.

She sits on top of a basin full of white viscous milk and she laughs as she sees him trying to get her helplessly and desperately. He is not thinking of consequence. He is only thinking of her. She lets her barren naked skin touch the milk, causing little ripples to reverberate. The drops of milk that were sucked by her bottom and are now dripping tingle her as they fall one by one, thirteen in all.

He does not mind the thorn covered field and the deep black water he has to cross to get to her. He does not mind the infinite abyss he has to jump over. He does not mind the scorching heat he faces.

Lights flicker outside the window. The sound of traffic and people shouting pierce through the chamber walls and the pen hesitates, the parchment wavers. A guardian angel today is seen as a stalker, at best.

Her white teeth glisten and give him hope; he feels so near to her now, and she’s letting him come to her, so close that he could smell her, so close that he could touch her, so close that he could taste her. He has regained his five senses again.

When she’s not in sight, no one matters. Bleak, the world is transformed and out-formed, as if giving up its seeds and suffocating on its breath. But when she appears so suddenly, I have a resolute desire to stand up, to rise, to climb, to ascend. A desire so resolute I forget about the inevitable fall, I forget about all the previous times she seemed so close, all the previous times I tasted her and smelt her and touched her. Her theatre of absence leaves me dry and forces my imagination to fill up the black spaces that she leaves behind. Her theatre of experience captures and lures me to the stage. The mere sight of her is Hell. But I choose Hell over a bleak Earth.

She drops her body into the basin again, letting more skin touch the milk’s surface. Pretty soon, most of her ass cheeks are immersed in the white liquid, which is gradually being stained by drops of her own blood, as if her soul is being aborted. She sees him, her laughter becomes more intense and blood gushes into the milk. The basin is now filled with claret-coloured liquid.

People outside buy and sell each other, eat from each other’s hands and hide each other’s gold below the neon lights that fail to glow, the purple sky and the lacklustre moon.

She bleeds. She becomes one transformed, who laughs! A laughter that is no human laughter—and now a thirst gnaws at me, a yearning that will never be stilled. My yearning for this laughter gnaws at me: oh how can I bear to go on living! And how could I bear to die right now! I have lived in the wrong time, but now I can die at the right time. In front of her I am free for death and free only in death.

Thus speaks our hero as he hears her laughter and sees her glistening white teeth. He comes to save her bleeding body but she will not let him. She only laughs maniacally, an inhuman laughter. Her blood gushes, and her body reddens as well. On her wrist, punctured holes appear and blood cascades down into the basin, which is now overflowing with claret waterfalls. He sees her torn wrist and his eyes widen in terror. A coiling serpent emerges from one of her punctured wrists and coils itself around our man. It cracks his bones and swallows him. Desire’s end is always abysmal.

She gets up from atop the basin, her ass cheeks dripping claret. A blue light of heaven shines on her and the serpent creeps inside her again. She utters her final words with ugly contempt:

Unshakable are my depths: but they sparkle with swimming riddles and laughter. A sublime one I saw today, extremely solemn, a penitent of the spirit: oh my soul laughed at his ugliness. He has starved to death on his expectations. And as I wallow in melancholy I know that only when the hero has abandoned her is she approachable, in the dead hero’s infinite, impotent dream.

Texts in Italics are adapted and changed slightly from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra


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