Wednesday, December 25, 2013

farewell [or the spiral]


Ripples, 1950 | by Escher 

[Tear-rolled face observer] Crimes of humanity, should I forgive them? posture them? simply abhor them? We all take part in many; hide others upon myriad others. We even find them beautiful; they are published! Gentle crimes… That little boy. Lying on the ground. Dismantled? In laughter, bursting out? Unstable. [Lunatic-him and her, in all her to-no-avails] Seven, maybe a hundred years gone. Plausibly? A little less. Since his last smile? His break-down. [Inborn.] The crashes. And he lashes…out. His motives. The very shot-down. How to argue over them? Such impetus, he gains. Toward. And so against...against...against. What, against what, against whom? Walls upon walls, the shocks. Reminiscences. Attempts. Re-re-re's...inexorable replies. Many roads, in the middle of them. All. And nothing. His pain. Insurmountable, perhaps. And then...[revenge?] Or just...a lack? Myriads and misunderstandings.
Mother Father Sister Acquaintances Friends. [A farewell.] Where? No limits. There are chains. That little boy. His losses. Struggles. Against. [Un]motivated? No land(s). No reasons, with no end. A light. But again, his torments, no voice. A cloistered. [Evasion.] Environment. His death. To life. A re-beginning. Recurrent, spiral. Another dead-end? Impervious, adamant, virulences. Turmoil gates. No one. No place.
Everybody knows but no one—indeed. That little boy had his motives—the Impossibility? Bearing up against demons—of solitude, parsimony, deceit. There's empathy for him. Here. And his pain for having suffered—his particular way to dismiss? And no one, not even himself, being able—to back down. Poor boy. Until he finally decided—to wreak his revenge. Maybe he didn't find himself—any way to accept and understand...and just...wanted to fly and fly away...far-distant away...
Would there be once upon a time a person willing to...? World-world, fiend-world...fraught with brutalit(ies) and coward(ices). World-world, asphalt-world, deprived of so many ineffables. Every(any)where. Ample-follies them. The boy, panicking [or indifferent, who guesses], will be impervious to caress. And he might refuse, not for being evil, but feeling estranged and even him-the-hesitant, he will dispose of the texture, the touch, and the hand. The kissingbirding in-being extended toward him, here for him, will be...what, displaced? A god-damned shame, the gesture, an attitude...of despair. And of pain. His posture, her absence of composure—the motif, a reason?. Perhaps…but there will remain, just listen, not that one-sided scattered skin...but a dampened, even a next-door shared-pain...