When God is seen in the dark light of death, under the fluorescence of dim inner experience, you realize that God died for the sake of communication with a community. And so death comes out to be the only effective means of communication free from the all-altering and alienating arm of language. Death is inner experience.
The mosque’s Morning Prayer ricochets off of the buildings, echoing between the alleys around the building, searching desperately for an alluring ear to instil a message. The swarm of people kneeling in the direction of the Qibla, their bodies rising and falling unanimously, directed towards a black stone far off in the Arabian Peninsula. I wake up, the walls shaking from the Imam’s reprimanding of all present goings-on. If only he knew how ineffectively his words disseminated themselves in the vacancy of alleys and homes.
I hear Father coming back from the morning prayer. He steps proudly in the house, his heel knocking on the floor with ostentatious force. I hear his footsteps pass the bathroom as I empty my bladder. He calls my name, but I don’t answer. He calls Mother, and she comes running to him. I imagine her oversized maternal cheeks and boobs sagging dolefully to the ground, her thyroid gland exploding in her neck, and her body having heat waves which turns her skin red and saline. I get out of the bathroom and I see Father and Mother standing outside my room, looking inside, then looking at me, a look of repugnance.
“You were a dove once,” Mother says nostalgically, her wrinkled fingers pressed tightly on her body.
“But now you’re a snake with your blasphemous thoughts and a pig with your filth!” Father’s invective does not strike me as odd.
But no longer. I feel I’m going to die, any time, and it would be good.
Mother complains how I lock myself in a room which I never tidy up. Mother tries so hard to talk to me, but to no avail. The strings of maternal love have been cut and the bond has been indefinitely repudiated.
Father. I am speechless. Father, this is for you. Father wishes I were Lavinia; Father wishes to find a reason for my silence. Father would prefer rape and a cut tongue over an unexpressed feeling of blankness. Father would wish to rape me himself, to make me utter meaningless sounds to his delight. Father’s presence eats me alive. Father can’t hear me now.
But I prefer the silence. I prefer the darkness. I prefer to be indistinct like the point when a river joins the sea: the point of annihilation. I am annihilation. My room: my closed-off womb lacking openings always invites a series of Mother’s impotent, tepid objections.
When I die, it won’t rain. It’ll be like a bird of prey hunting under the azure of clear sky.
But I remain inside. Dwelling in silence; irritated by the noise of my flesh. It screams from the abyss of anguish and I listen to it in my room, alone, afraid of the consequence of my own words.
The excess of flesh is balanced by the scarcity of words; I only communicate through lacerations, the (s)laughter of flesh: the concrete promise of human freedom. From the abyss of language it laughs; from the non-place of the abyss, I hear the nonknowledge of my existence. I hear the laughter and I know that the future has already been; this is Zarathustra’s laughter, and who knows better than Zarathustra about the discomfort with one’s place in life?
Zarathustra, the character who preceded me, made clear the circle which is eternity’s trajectory. The circle onto which I was thrown by Father and Mother, my original fall, and now, eternally recurring, timeless, I await my final fall: the fall of ecstasy.
I fall, and the noose does not hold me. I fall on shards of glass and they pierce through me. I bleed and laughter echoes from the ruptures of flesh. I open up and I say my last word in a state of glory.
Father, Mother. Listen to me. What I am, I am. A dove. A snake. A pig.
Mother hears the thud, Mother rushes and holds me in her trembling eyes, seeing the truth of it all; the failing of the womb that turned into a cage that turned into a coffin. The image takes her back in time, twenty-one years back, when I was decided to be a keepsake of some highly marvellous night, their shadows disappeared and so did their shame; they washed off on me.
Mother tries to hold me, but every touch is suffocating. I’m closer to the edge, to the final fall. Shards of glass cut my mother, and I’m so close to her wounds, I hear the laughter. Does she hear them too? Can she tell how close I am?
Father. Where are you? Did you die already?
Decorate my room with flowers after I’m gone. Get rid of my awful smell. Scrub the floor clean from the dry black blood. Leave no trace of my language-deprived yet loud goodbye. But beneath the bed, if you see a circle, do not scrub it off. I am treading that circle now, forever, in the abyss of nonknowledge. I am laughing and dancing with Zarathustra.