Sunday, November 4, 2012

Year 0.


Not far away from here, moves up and down, and from side to side a primordial larva. A spirit, an immature metamorphosis, bends through the branches to reach the sun on the top of the absolute infinity, the top of the trunk, the top of every branch. So far, so boundless.
The tree (any tree) is meant to be a closed boundlessness. Age counts nothing; the year zero left no days, no hours, no sunset, no dawn; no mysteries. Absolute powerlessness. Year zero brought a larva. A dissolution of ether, lassitude, depths and light. And secretion, to get attached wherever wanted. Even trees secrete.
The year zero and our larva are unresponsive to the hierarchy of the tree. With a gentle move of the eyelids, the larva closes his eye and reaches one of the tops. Then it falls again to unify his rebirths by weakening number and years, over and over again. The zero, the absolute infinity to which everything falls. And falls again and becomes heavier. Legs open wide and ether lifts finger to ejaculate towards ∞ + ε. It serves to integrate them. To moisten the bluish scratches. Towards restlessness. Upon a dreary allegory of zero. Of this precise moment when the larva wanders gloomier.
Still unexposed to generations, it extends faithfulness to the limit (or the unlimit) of no encouragement of doubts. Zero is bliss. Zero grows with a stick, and feeds beds. It is not bliss. It is curious. It is not zero anymore. Enough!
There was a time when he though he had seen a Second Death of a Father. And a Mother implying that she was the obly one to be blamed for believing others. "Once they brough him and told me, Take him, no hope for the dead, and I, like a fool, left him there to die, when I myself could confirm it. But in fact he wasn't dead yet when they brought him to me," - the Mother said. "I", - she continued, sad and about to cry, angry at the same time, "I myself should have seen him. But I left him there, in his room, alone. He was dying meanwhile." "But how is it possible that he's dead now, again, a second death?" - the Daughter asked, "Is it possible that he had been with us all this period? I have been seeing so many coffins ultimately, mother, leaving this workhouse. Man in black suit, slim and wearing high-hats, placing the coffins everywhere upon our land. They buried someone next to the door entrance. It was the Father, right?" "I don't know," - she told her, "Maybe we ourselves are a prolonged dream of some gravedigger." So she spoke to fade then within a memory of a Daughter and a larva. Repetitious revolution of generations followed his fallings. An obstinate sisyphus and a descending, but dreaming icarus of visionary vertigoes of a wounded tree and unshattered indifference. Recording his own epitaphs everywhere. Oh, how he fell! To divide and conquer all over again; to consume the absurdity of the tree and the obscenities of a secluded self-homo-eroticism. Without an eve to face the sun and self-abuse. Who will save the sane?

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