I cannot write or feel at all. I cannot feel the breeze that is blowing on me. You may scoff and say there is no breeze. That the murmuring ceiling fan is a joke and an illusion. That the skies are cruel and the examinations beckon. The cosmic sniggers are so hard to take. So is deception and cruelty. Reading Antigone does not make it better.
It is obvious that Antigone felt a lot. I mean if my father married his mother then I would feel a lot too. Or I could go numb. Antigone, being Greek, did both at regular intervals but the numbness, of course, being less obvious. What am I saying? The Pantheon alone knows. *sigh*
It is goddamned tableau that my life has frozen into. The seconds tick by. *tick tick* I too have a nervous tic which I would love to tick off. But such t(r)icks I have long since forgotten. When I lost that which I held most important. Faith.
Faith is that glass vase like Benjamin's language. So fragile, so easily broken, such magnificent pieces. For us poor humans, never to be joined again. Once gone. Why do they try so hard, when they know that the cracks will show? I know this eternal optimist, to my diseased eye, such a glorious and inept fool, who would say: "But think, the vase could be joined with the strongest of glue and the cracks would be a new design and the whole thing would be fantastic and new-age. Cutting edge!"
But I, perforce a cynic like that other Benjamin( a nice donkey), would say, "But where can such glue be procured, by dear foolish thing? Thou art young yet, and the night is not. The night fades into a dismal pink. Dawn-pink; frosty and cold and unassuming. Let us assume that it is a new day with a new beginning. I must get a new vase!"
But vases, vases are aesthetic necessities to keep flowers in. They are not mandatory. Flowers cruelly torn from the bounteous bosom of nature. Nature that forsakes every cruel and shallow hypocrite who inhabits this decadent(no Fin de siècle, but what difference does that make?) world. Decadent in values, in morals, in goodness. We live lives that are never for a moment examined. We talk of clever things or stupid things disguised; you know what I mean. We want to be poets and philosophers and historians and artists and art historians and professionals and publishers et al. Now stop to think. When was the last time we purchased a vase and stared at it longingly changing the flowers every day? Where is the time?
Vases don't exist any more. They existed for the Greek and the Chinese. Flowers are so fucking expensive. The last time I bought a dirty wilted rose for my mother, I felt repulsed at my own whimsical extravagance. And the last time I received a rose, it meant nothing. Such is faith, my friends. Such is the good life.
Crimson scarlet dirty flowers like a soul inept and soiled.
Do you think the vase broke even as it recoiled?