The Arrival of the Sun (The Departure of Shame)

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I’m crawling. I’m sidelined, but I need no sympathy. Fear takes precedence over the minds of the weak ones. And will they ever see the sun?

The sun, its terror is so great; we feel it without looking at it. The darkness is full of memories. You only know that a spirit of a person is dead when all you have is memories. Remembrance is the most tacit form of mourning.

I saw her in the dark after she had left me, and she was walking towards me, ignorant of the fact that I’m facing her, that she’s walking back into my arms. She kept on walking until the sun rose up, and she saw me waiting, humble and weak. I did not ask for respect, but for the violent impulse which speeds the inertia which pushes her to me, and maybe that violent impulse will kill us both.  I kept myself in the dark all through the night so that I become a taboo in her mind. The truth is one, once the taboo faces you, you leap onto it in an animalistic violent sexual frenzy, but the erotic leap in itself makes us human, a leap with no calculation, forgetting the past, and refraining from enslaving the present to the future; this is as close as we can die without ceasing to live, it is living equally with death. The sun is transgression.

Will they ever see the sun?

I cannot keep on walking through this discontinuous cycle born out of fear and restraint. It all feels the same. The same fears, the same inhibitions, the same irrationality, the same impersonality, the same sidelining, the same unimportance. I realize that it is an epidemic. It’s religion, but misunderstood; it’s monotheistic and it commits people to a human life of work with no animal respite. Alienation made divine. What happens when the fear is gone? When God dies? Irresponsible, undisciplined degradation in a dark abyss.

I am not comfortable writing this. I will be the victim, the words act as torturer.

As civilized as I try to be, my silence always comes out as violent, but I dare not speak, and now Language, my tool, betrays me, and treason tastes bitter when I realize that I’m the executioner as well.

I cannot project a complete corporeal image on anything around me. I am finding trouble defining my spirit in this place, among these people of constant deficit change. Will they ever know that their ways are faulty and their thoughts are part of a dictated narrative existing and feeding on differences. They live on negative definitions, and negatively, they try to find a purpose by looking at origins from the past, and passively they die in the darkness of history.

But a purpose does not imply an origin. An origin does not imply purpose. Knowledge was made not for understanding, but for cutting, an anatomical cut which opens up gaps and formidable abysses.

She is thirsty still and confused. She will always think of herself as incomplete, missing, lacking. She will never be satisfied because a part of her has been cut, but not anatomically, disfiguringly, and knowledge has been lost, growth has been impeded; a mind has been scarred, and a soul has been amputated.

I sense a desire in her, a desire for uninhibited freedom which scares me. This city does not help. This city will not let you stand tall if you are not submitting to its shallow routine. This city will not let you stand proud if you ignore its calls for lavish spending and religious devotion. So how can one not lose his way in this city of religious fear? The rotten morning breath of fear stinks up the empty streets at dawn, intoxicates the population in their sleep, that great punisher who will lynch them in their slumber, choke them for a misdeed. Fear replaces everything: duty, responsibility, morality, care, respect, compassion, aspiration, freedom, sex. Fear becomes a belief based on deceit.

The more I know her, the less I can contain and understand the various impulses that control her. I wish I can cut through her, correctly, to open her up before my eyes and gaze at everything in her, everything which makes her a complete whole. I cannot trust her until I know the truth which lurks inside of her.

But we revel in discontinuity, and suspicion will remain a monster which tears me with its million claws and deafens me with its thunderous roar.

For now, I’ll allow my silence to take the form of violence, and my language to be dubbed as civilized, even though I’ll know that the violence is silenced, and it is not the silence in itself which is violent. I want no sympathy. I know what is needed and I know how to get it, but now is not the time. I can’t force the sun, the creator and destructor, that great eye in the sky which will shine and finally we will all be able to defecate comfortably without shame and reach a sacred continuity.

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2 thoughts on “The Arrival of the Sun (The Departure of Shame)

  1. Sammy

    Fantastic!
    Language might be an unreliable tool, but you’ve managed to utilize it quite craftily with the rich expressive metaphors you always enrich your writings with.

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