Shutting
yourself away in this box.Ceaselessly
you seal the cracks by which the void seeps in. You cover in thick
spit the black planks, you flatten its splinters, you spread old
newspapers over to hide its rot.Your
lips are in pieces. Your throat is a twisted pipe blowing its thirst.
Your temples are heavy with the void’s absence.The
walls are whining. The planks are becoming finer. Their blackness
fades away, becomes glass. You strike the panes – your palms aren’t
bloody yet. Outside, all of the void agglutinates in flocks.Outside?
The
light carves the glass in a thin arch, cuts a door out of the skin.You
step over the threshold and immerse your feet. You’re walking
through the void’s fabric. You’re shutting yourself up in the
void.Almost
no resistance.A
few fishes only swirl at the surface. You don’t know where the
void’s surface is. You don’t know about the fishes. You only feel
the eyes of the tornadoes.You’re
digging, with your clasped hands, toward whats seems to be the bottom
of the void; you’re digging, and then tie yourself up to the sand,
your legs so far over your head, your nails squealing in
a forever scattered support, you’re walking this way, in the void’s
depths, with
a stiffen neck, you’re walking on your hands…Your
streaming hands.
soliloquy III.
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