Bajarmaland, Viktor Vastnestov.
Another old text.
* * *
Deep in the gray forest, fall the most dark shadows of ancient trees, remains of one past time … The natural journey of the Elves; everyday they walk to the Sanctuary, with their luminous steps. The fear is their only temptation; the black cloud is approaching so quick, than nobody look back. They are a great and brave community, but the swords of the enemy are very longs too … and very much perfidious.
When the night appear over their thin bodys and their beautiful faces, their enchanted dresses paint the path of moonlight. And their ritual song exploit in choruses of ancient wisdom, and all their voices break like the waves against the rocks and the silence. The fear must be defeated, before the final battle for the Lineage of the Gods … Only the pure, will survive.
Go! Heroes! Go, for the race and the eternal love of the Emerald Maiden!
* * *
The morning light hurts his eyes, but, he found a cure in her deep caress, the last hour of darkness in the white flow of her body, and her redden skin.
The strong solitude of two is a sweet vacuum and his soul, rest of the daily universe. They see the birds in the sky, they call them, they know their names. The warrior kiss her neck and she cry like a beast in the wood; the flowers sing and the pride bee, twirl and twist against the wind.
A girl of yesterday, an old friend of insects; bodies, in harmonic movements, tongues entwine and desire. Sun of fury and ice that breaking in the eyes.
I have already killed so many demons and I have seen so much blood that my head spins, when I return for the umpteenth time to enter the underground warehouse … Then, it is as if the virtual spaces had been introduced in some parallel way to my body, as atomic fractions, viruses, nanobots that will infect my digestive tract. An immense desire to vomit, as if I suddenly stopped after a hundred roller coasters. My mind revolves around virtual coordinates and wars on the computer screen, and then I turn a thousand times in the bed harassed by the viruses, which have invaded my flesh and merge into it, mutating it, a new state of evolution in which the lizard skin mutates into something else, into a fractal, mental, crystalline, final container of toxins, of memes. Pale and rattled, like the effluvia of an underwater volcano that keeps alive, primitive and grotesque forms.
Take some of the global super-highways of byte streams, while our bodies continue their daily routine of movements, and we reprogram ourselves into a new automatic elegy.
Enter the Void.
Everything hurts. The silence, the furniture that squeaks on the top floor, hurt. I drown in a watery light. I feel nothing more than that sting. Something tells me not to write. Do not give shape to what should only disappear. Flow to a stream, melt. Salt. I am absolutely aware that any act will be followed by nothing. There will be no thread, just random stumblings on an infinite carpet, full of folds.
A few hours later, despite the darkness, there seems to be nowhere to run. There is no place free of human beings, nor of their canine slaves, nor outside the reach of their electromagnetic emissions. There is a void out there, but it is unreachable.
This vacuum, is almost comparable to that which exists inside a bag of meat.
The Reaper. Konstantin Vasilyev, 1966.
The abandoned moon,
A lighthouse of little interest
Suspended from a network of fibers
Dark and convoluted.
A star beyond
It lights a place so folded
In its own depth,
Whose blue does not yet wake up.
Gray clouds stained red
Threaten to cut
The helpless print
Of, without grace, intergalactic travelers.
Corpuscles, light waves
Crash into the ivory surface
Of an enchanted marsh
But nothing shines
In the way the flowered crack
Of the basin of her eyes,
Embrace the cold of darkness.
Nobody wants to believe that there is no reason. Everything has to be explained. Nobody understands that someone can kill just for killing. What is fiction and what is reality?
Time stretches like an elastic, making every second unabashed like a grown river. The path of the hours is unreachable. The sky is gray, the same from prisons, buildings or forests. Nothing is sheltered in anything. It seems as if the light travels through the rooms like a dog head down and furious. Neither does the shadows reject that light. It is an omnipotent fluid, inflated with disdain.