The feeling of loss – a textural paradox.
The wetness of tears and snot
and the dryness of facts that provoked them.
The softness of mould and decay
and the hardness of the point when it hits.
The harshness of pain
and the frictionless slide to despair.
The nothingness taking over
and becoming
all.
“All the world’s a stage…”
(W. Shakespeare)
Sit still and look.
The play develops.
It grows from the root of common knowledge.
The vessels form and fill with blood and bile.
Sighs, screams and whispers fill the air.
You run headlong into the wall of pain
and, winded by the force of impact,
stop,
doubled up,
just breathing.
You cry and laugh in turn and in-between.
Pain, imperceptibly, becomes a habit
but so does the joy –
both dulled by usage.
The actor’s voice,
still raised in imprecation,
commands attention
and, of course, you listen…
But now mostly listen to the silence
that is to come.
The play will soon be over.
Leaves fall and wither,
ladybirds go to sleep,
walls crumble
and doors dissolve into the background,
like tissue paper…
there is no point in grabbing an illusion –
you will just dig your nails into the palms of your hands
until they bleed
and pain finally overcomes your desperate attempt at self-deception…
and you are left with bleeding palms –
not much one can do with wounded hands…
much better to open your hand waving good-bye.
Count them:
cigarettes, barefoot footprints in the sand, days, minutes, seconds…
counting obviates the need to experience,
what’s counted is in the past, what will come is in the future…
there is no need for the sense of loss in the present,
for it can be eternally postponed, like seeing the very last footprint…
