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Tuesday, December 7, 2010

WRITING FOR THE GOD SAKE OF WRITING

It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors
Reflections of their children appear with leeching auras
Hours rush out of days as though time is dying
And space is fading in the approaching audible necro odors
Infinity is drawn near, cloaked in robes of darkness carelessly piercing the sun with a gloomy sword of hatred to foray the speed of light, rushing with winds of agony to blow off flames marking illumination in their sages, oracles go blind, fortune tellers are mute so they’ve nothing to tell us, with injured legs they limp out of luck, the chief is taking orders
From illusive voices, deciphering unseen omens, he doesn’t know who to trust
Death is back to retrieve what was loaned to them by birth
They descended from the bedeviled messiahs, their forefathers
Now it is time to recolour their blood, they should swallow the rainbow and repaint their insights, they should repent!    
It is the epoch of bleeding mirrors
The stonyhearted suffering to passionate live performers…


Beneath the tall ring marked tree the hierarchy of elders formed a circle and tried angles with different shapes, in the quest of rounding off a perfect diagram for their forth coming redeemer. They sat and outlined the distinctive features that would determine their messiah. All haphazardly shouting out their arguments and reasons thereof: 
  “He with firearms, dynamite fingers and hand grenades for gestures that will blow the audience away”
“I say he with a metallic voice to still attention we he speaks”
“And I say he with motion in his soul to move his audience” 
“Let him possess a cashier’s passion to speak and leave the audience with change”…they went on and on with their demands hoping that no one begets a child of that kind, but to their astonishment, a soul was retrenched beyond the palisades of forever and their reminisces embodied this soul, a messiah was born. He with the spine of copper and eyes of switches, his bulb mind would get ideas every time he sees light. The bulb would light and he would get ideas of a new set to charge momentum into his audience and move their hearts whenever he performs. But he had a mission to complete; his birth was an insult to the elders, thus leaving him with no choice but to pay for the disgrace, it is the most rational thing to do, to justify his birth. 
Trespassed the high gates enclosing the fortress of unseen bricks, pillars of nothingness holding up the void that was meant to roof this shelter, like an orphaned serpent he sneaked in through the cracks of the absent  door, entered the house painted with colours of invisibility. There lived a man, a tellurian with a soul that has never touched the ground, a man that had defined his existence as a solid nihility, a man who loathed the world and constructed a neon asylum in his head; in times of suffering he would hide in the maize passages of his mind…his mind...his mind…
His lucent psyche, the prism to light; he would slice one beam into seven coloured light rays to elucidate those around him and paint radiance into their minds, but to his sad reality they did not exist. So he would sit, suspended on that rocking chair moving to the future and the past concurrently, morphing nights to days and days to nights as the chair rocks back and forth, with his thin eyes rooted in the dead stem of an old wise tree, now killed to serve a page’s purpose. He sits there silently hugged by the compassionate arms of solitude, scribbling shape to his earth, scribbling matter into his space, he would sit there as God before the seventh day, and he would create. The ungoverned hand swiftly moving with fingers clutching the pen as a shovel over cemetery soil; he would create a portal away from this life to his death and find refuge in the images drawn by his afterlife thoughts. Father to his hermit nation he would merge ages and weave images of euphoric tomorrows with the beards of the sage he is in his imagination. It is only through writing he could smell life from songs of birds decorating the horizon with melodies of hope, hope for the sultry summer rains to purify earth with joy tears from angels that have witnessed her aphrodisiac bosoms during her wet seasons, though time was still frozen in the breezy winter breathes, he would see the rain moving from earth to heaven carrying prayers of the aqua worshipers, they say waters heals, dipping their heads in rivers hoping to wash off impure thoughts from their minds, all these were the vacant tales carried by his writings, the imaginative fiction that crafted a novel universe for him, where life’s sufferings are only God’s times of having fun with his servants and nothing really worth moaning, a universe were death is accepted as part of life and not used to install fear into people indulging in their hearts desires. He would write himself out of reality and realize that his dreams are also a reality only condemned by those who have mares for dreams.  
From a distant land the warrior came, having kissed his flawless elbows and promised sacrilegious phrases to his God, the lives of the village children rested on his palms, the future kings and queens with cloud characteristics to reign supreme in his land in the approaching equinoxes, the perpetuation of his people was the reason he was born, his mission to complete. Yes many follow Moses day in day out in the quest for ceramic tablets with a list of purposes to give meaning to their lives, but he’s out shined crystal by far, it was as clear as the photographs of oxygen on an A0 canvas. He had been born to the land of movers, the land that prays in tongues of body language, where silence is appreciated long as motion is shouting leisure to open eyes. 
A nation devoted to actions and oblivious to the meaning behind the acts, Mission statement: “We have been empty tins, shouting our foolishness to the gods in times of sense and silence; we resorted to this empty dance and lost all sense. Now you, you have been chosen to go loot sense out of scribbles of the madman. Your mission is to bring back sense to our nation” commanded the village totems, pointing the messiah 
He stands there in the emptiness of the writer’s residence; the house decorated with empty spaces that were believed to be shelves of his archive, he stands firmly with his fluorescent warrior ego glowing with fury and passion in the aisle of this mad house. From the depths of his glowing spirit he shouted “I am a warrior of motion, the messiah of agonized voices, I speak silence with oscillating postures of my vessel, the house of my never resting soul. Reveal yourself!”  With a trembling rage he said. In return all that was said to him was not heard, there was only silence…and nothing else but the fury inspired pulse of his heart chanting songs of struggle, crying to escape through his throat. The annoying fingers of impatience scratching his back, boiling chest, words are now evaporating out of his mouth, you could tell be the appearance of the speech bubbles “What are you!” now his sharp eyes are collecting water from his tormented mind “I said reveal your identity, what on this breathing earth are you!”
After numeral fractions of seconds nearing a minute a voice came carried by the lucent hands of sound, from the unknown fields where the gods play hide and seek, a voice was heard, “I am not, I am as residues of your past thoughts, your perception of me embodies my soul, only then do I become ”…
”How sick are you? Do you even refer to that as an answer?!” savagely uttered the warrior of motion. “Reveal yourself and meet your long determined doom!” 
Learning that the warrior had been driven by flames of hatred and the energy of conflict, the writer humbly spoke “Only bliss resides in a spot previously inhabited by ego in my mind, so your fury is just a weapon of suicide to yourself, inhale serenity now and witness the wonders of being still” a smile could be heard spreading itself on his face. “What is it  that you seek from a solid nothingness that I am?”
Astonishingly this time no silence was heard, fury partially faded and this came from the messiah’s mouth “If you are not and yet you’re part of us tellurians, what is then your sole purpose?”
“I write. What is your mission?” asked the great nihility
“I move those who are fortunate enough to see me, through channeling I walk with their minds to realms of visible gods, the gods that have chosen motion as their token of worships. Who are you trying to help with your writings?” with words compressed in a vehicle of sarcasm, he asked.  
“I don’t write to save and change lives, I write to stay alive. I don’t wish to entertain anyone, I don’t dream of having disciples nor do I want to be celebrated. My writing is a bridge between me and the gods, I write, they exist. I write, they become, I write and become one with them”
“Well I have come to burn the bridge, I want to perform, I want to connect and be one with my audience, I want them to feel me, I want them to remember me after every performance!” fury came back only this time tamed by sympathetic flow of tears, sadness became the invisible vacuum that sucked ego out through his pores of discomfort, without the interruption of the writer, he proceeded “I have been commanded to come here and loot off you your writings, so please, you have to help me, my existence is an insult to the elders. Grant me your scrolls”…
“It is only my text you will take; you cannot take my writing even if I wanted to permit that. I’m afraid your elders have long neglected the art of writing and went astray with the joys of crazing the audience and the beauty of fingers yelling snaps to their pseudo lines punched out of context by blur imagery constructed from clichés and modern consumer language. You see writing allows me to fly, performing sends me back to the lifetime prison that is this body, this body is a predicament, I want to fly”  
With no conclusion or whatsoever that usually marks an end to most conversations, emptiness took its place once again…then there was nothing but writing for the God sake of writing.