Say Goodbye to the one who is Leaving, say Goodbye to the one who is Lost

“Yeah let’s do something crazy, something absolutely wrong/while we are waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come”

- Leonard Cohen, Waiting for the Miracle, The Future.

1.

When the boy laid his sight on those shadows spread out on her skin, supposedly not to be touched by living daylights, he remembers he started crying before not touching. Oozing tears is not the correct sort of performance of liquid masculinity, so one had to hold it back and hide it. It’s a sport, it’s a game, let us take it at its funniest end: he earlier assuaged her trepidations. Tears do not belong to such contracts.

He was haunted by moving images. Cinema introduces a reverse vector to all known motions in this world. The hand which is moving towards the touch is haunted by the possibility: body inevitably moving away from the body. The tragedy of sex is the virginity of souls. The touch irreversibly etches the trajectory of not being able to touch anymore. Of retracing backwards the move you thought you were finishing.

That day he saw his hand moving in, hoping to pull out some piece of paper which might be deemed ‘necessary and lost’ by the system he has sold his soul and freedom to. The little finger trying to move away from its more powerful and longer siblings, memories assailed his hand to a momentary freeze.

Drifting through faces

Hope few are awake, wish only friends are reading… You might encounter lots of Wild West imageries in the posts following because I have been watching only Westerns these days and systematically so…

This blog, through its bombast and silence, has been the best index of my emotional life for one-and-half years, like the holstered gun in a half-breed gunslinger’s waist during his long-distance loneliness of riding. Unlike a hooligan’s one, it is a gun of a reluctant but destined man, the silence is aspired and appreciated.

I don’t shoot to kill except cases of self-defense, I shoot to practice. I admit the iron’s overload of ridiculous manhood, I admit its wages of shameful sin, I admit its contract with the devil. I do not inhabit the age of living anymore, I am riding in the era of survival.

There had been posts here which provoked reactions from loved ones which I harbor in my heart because it burns, my private burden of bitterness which eats me up in there. Oh there had been widespread cheers, applause, awed eyes which I enjoyed much at the beginning. Suddenly I mutated into a public persona. “You write well”, “I read your blog”, unknown faces uttering reticence and delivering much through eyes. I acquired the skill of smiling back and uttering less than a formal thanks. I am a visible person in my trade; I am a performer. But in such cases I know the faces. This turned out to be strange, amusingly so, suddenly being read without being seen, suddenly being watched in the darkness. It was blissful like pungent corruption. Suddenly there were bloodstains in my wrists and palms.