, , , , , , ,

Alphonse Maria Mucha. “The Abyss”.

“… and there will be an infinity
smouldering beneath the sweet abyss.”
Silvio Rodríguez.

Sometimes I write things; things that come to me from places suffocated by darkness as dense as the deepest horror. Things I should hide beneath thousands of bolts, entomb them into wells of oblivion so inscrutably that not even the thinnest crystal of light could shine upon them.
But no matter how much I try to ignore them, they manage to leak through the cracks of the silence, emerging, spreading out among the words I seek for, as a morbid infection. I must get them off my back, before they take my dream away and swallow the frail clearness that still lingers in this afternoon.
I should not nurture them, I know. No matter how much I repeat this to myself once and again, there they are, in the middle of a phrase, at the end of a paragraph, at the beginning of a sentence. I purge them, I dig them out one by one and put them into a special place, where nobody can see them. Just envisioning the face of those who could read them, I start trembling. Sshhh. Stay in there, in there, quiet, not even pop your head out. Even less your eyes, those creepy eyes of voracious and demented naivety with which sometimes you stare at me. No. Better leave them there, pretty quiet.
Better. With a bit of luck, someday I will manage to get rid of them, they will stop coming to me and I will stop hearing its call, its whisper of abysses and hollows swollen by shadows creeping among gloomy valleys of death, and its abhorrent soliloquy will fall silent forever. Meanwhile, they will stay there, secluded. Its piercing screech won’t tear my ears, the figure of its twisted shapes won’t put my eyes to bleed, and everything will be fine. I will open the windows, I will air the house and I will water the garden. Everything will be joy and quietness. And when my neighbor wants to know why I’m laughing to myself, I will say her that I’ve just remembered a joke. Yes, a joke I heard somewhere, and when she asks me that I tell it to her I will say that better no, that it’s not a very white joke, no, nor an off-color joke. It’s dark, dark and filthy as the entrails of a tomb.