The Demented World – Part VII – Books, Reprise
Open. Open your eyes. Open your throat. Feel the water sliding down, inside that sore spot in the middle of your jugular, that parched place that never seems to end. The dark waters of my silent attempt, my desperate struggle to drown myself, should be reaching you by now. I can’t really know though. Like listening to Titan, like fingering the sand on the beach in the hope that it will call out my name and, finally!, I will be let free, there is no way for me to know if you’re hearing this. In any case, open your eyes and your throat and drink deep. Taste that? Maybe. That’s the water of life, derived from the worm. That’s my tearing of the veil, through which you see faint glimmers of life, faint echoes of thought, faint screams of love.
Write about this, I tell my self, turn the eye towards the blank space where all the words and not-words die. OK, fine, I’ll try. It’s so hard, this point, where everything clenches, not just my throat and eyes and heart but me, I clench, a tired, flaky fist grasping my own tail, pulling towards a place that is far worse than an Abyss. Far worse. This is where the veil is made, woven from my own frozen blood, cast about my eyes and throat. But, and this is no paradox for there is no dox in such a place, this is also where the water is distilled and poured and lovingly made possible. This is where the clear stream, the rough fountain, the babbling brook, all stem from the crux, from the terminus, from where I thought that nothing could be born.
Is this healing then? Are these writings, babblings, screams, are they my attempt to reach that place, to breach whatever seal often lies on that place? To make the water flow? It flows now and I dive deep, immersed in the shattering, healing, freezing waters of my own attempt to drink deep. Swimming now, I come upon the place where the veil is made. Giant machines of flowing nothing, endless devices of my fears, of my desires, of my untold lies, those places that even the eye cringes to look upon, where even light is sullied. And it too is washed. It too is washed and not made clean, no, allowed to keep its dirt. Made into the water, woven into the stream, made into a veil of the stream, all those places are joined in what? I can’t find the word for what this is. Not even a not word.
And the veil and stream, however unnamed they may be, tear. And from the bed where the water has flown, from the air where the veil was raised, come the faint screams, the faint echoes, the faint glimmers. Of what though? How can I name this, how can I name you, how can I name myself? The sand is mute and I still don’t have any way to know if you are hearing this. The great disconnect, back on whatever Titan or Europa you supposedly inhabit, on whatever lonely island (oh the island) that you might stand on, I can’t go, don’t you understand? I can’t go. I can’t know. If the waters of this silent attempt even reaches that parched place at the base of your throat.
Open your eyes. Don’t you see? I’m just a book. Unread. I am the fucked up panda in reverse, I can’t stop copulating with myself, fucking myself, birthing myself, loving myself and then fucking again and then birthing again and then loving again. Can’t stop, can’t drink, can’t read, can’t be read. Inhabited by not-words, infested with not-words, I am unread but written, alive but constant, changing but not-moving. I’m just a book. Fuck, how I wish I could burn this library, this shelf I inhabit, you besides me, just another fucking book, stuffed with your own not-words. All unread.