Invulnerable Vanquishment

Let’s piece together the careless touch and the perfunctory thrusts and then, let’s wait for the embroidery to take our breath away. Maybe it will bring redemption to the forgetful ones and misery to the clairvoyants. Or maybe nothing will happen… we’ll just live with the impression that it did. Who thought things will end up like this? That they’d take our choices from us, in such a gruesome fashion. Or maybe the right question is why? Why didn’t we feel anything? That we’re slipping away from ourselves, that the claws of the ego and the hinges of our silliest contemplations are forcefully pried apart and blown to smithereens. Is it too late or is it still too soon? Is it an exception or is it blatant chance? It does not matter. Ultimately, it never did but the place the psyche wanders is a wicked one. Needs of Reassurance to be melted, bolted and tinkered straight into it, to its deepest nick, in order for the thirst of serenity, to be quenched.


Let’s stroll to the golden days of syndication and mechanization. The seasons of musts and have to-s and do-s and never and always and solemnly promise. When the taste was dull and the words misspelled, when tears wouldn’t become us but compulsiveness, would. ‘Cause we were on the clock, ticked and tocked no matter what. Could we even fathom such a creative exercise? In order to ponder or to pray, to catch the last micros of a laugh, the neverending hours of a quarrel or the quickness of a musical note wavering on the wings of a butterfly. Yes, in order to project those naïve processes of organic entities. Let’s not, then.


Though it would seem that something ought to be in order. Write a post-it, hum a dirge, walk backwards while counting forwards… anything, the more preposterous, the better. It is now or sayonara. Meh, preaching to the deaf and blind, living obscenely unabashed. Envious – that we are. On them, the amorph concept of mass which takes it without blinking, while wailing to that god, lost in his fluid contempt for us. We should pull the trigger. Let’s pull the trigger. Faster like this, wholesomely neater, here in the rubbish of our History, the rubbish to be our grave. We ain’t the cowards, we’re the proactive visionaries of tomorrow. They thought it to be blissful salvation and it ended up in ironic corollaries. Humans, us humans – capable of nothing, not even…. Doesn’t matter.


We can’t think straight anymore so we’re debating whether the sky is Bordeaux, bloody or beige. Let’s laugh out loud, once more, just to hear those high pitches and those low intensities of the beating hearts, the hurried pulse and the harsh breath while we can still detach the adrenaline rush from our spasming vertebras and transplant it, to our shy hands and fragile fingers. Time is almost up; the rays will spark once more and then a quick series of bangs and tada. Our duty is done, in the name of the understanding strangers all over the globe that have joined us in this stunt. We are… grateful. To you, the could have been lover, we say: “too bad”.


Let this symphony be not a prelude to despair but a proof that End and No more Tomorrow aren’t enemies and never were. A fact which deep down, in the melting pot of the craving and childish das Es, we knew. ‘Cause instincts predetermined everything in the measly lives of Segments, who longed to be Unrestricted Lines, like radio waves and on repeat answer machine messages. How like us, we know.


Huh… So the paintbrush of serendipity drops like this. Well, that doesn’t seem so bad if anything it feels appropriate, in tune and by strings of flawlessness and perdition, in a hyperbolic paradox and amidst an oxymoronic standstill. No shame in quitting, love… Go, and make yourself a Mojito while blinking through the dawn of a new day. And then another and another, until you blink no more, the ice has melted and silence is crowned Ruler of Nothingness. To you, we wish Namaste.