Vamp Iris Atma Ra
I have found a language in which to resurrect: it is neither my country nor my land, but my only possible homeland. The one that blossoms among graves, exiles, and networks of words. 🌒🌱 ProsePoetic #Nietzsche #IrisAtma #DarkLiterature https://wp.me/p3JLEZ-aLy
I have taken more than a decade to revive myself, without visiting my grave, burning it, or simply passing by, but finally establishing three pillars for the luminous resurrection, that which awaits me to inhabit, before I rest in eternity. In cemeteries, there are many lost graves, of friends, unknown relatives, yes, of loved ones and absentees one carries buried within, alive or dead.
I have lost count of how many cemeteries I have visited, and in them, the graves of illustrious figures… Sometimes, I remember to greet them. What catches my attention the most are usually the sculptures of angels, of Jesus, of the virgin, and of children. Also, the wild nature that survives and finds its way among crosses, despite the gnarled trunks of the trees sporting dark knots. It is understandable; it must not be easy to grow and stretch the branches toward the sun in these places.
These are small deaths, symbolic exiles of a long depression, with many rainy and peaceful hours, but occasionally shaken by thunder and tears. I think of myself as a mirage, barely remembering my passions. But if I hold myself tightly, under the sheets, I listen to the beating of my blood, the dance of my breath.
I. I seek you, love… and with love, I do not speak of a person; I call for a state of grace, navigating through the marble, the concrete of this labyrinth city, the testament of Cronos, the cobwebs in psychiatric and psychological diagnoses. I try to be solemn and whole, instead of ridiculous and meek in the definitions of my soul and my cradle. However, and of course, I believe it is not my words that fascinate or seduce my listeners; it is the echoes they find in them of their own endearing miseries, and of their wandering souls, without coats or homeland. In their unveiled hopes that refuse to disconnect, that become acrobats of networks, philosophers of hypermodernity. Of those migrant longings, displaced in multiple translations and microscopic migrations.
“Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torment of man.” Friedrich Nietzsche
II. What does a country provide that is not community? Why is it impossible for me to find a Spiritual Land, a place to stretch, long as interminable serpents, my roots? My native nation dissolves into frauds, moves, no places. I still resist calling myself stateless, but for how long? How many keys, homes, and hearts can we say farewell to before my chest turns to ash? Perhaps that is why we are prohibited from memory in resurrection, to lighten the burden, the resignation before multiple goodbyes. How then, love, can we recover the illusion and surprise of children, in these bodies and eyes that weigh more each day? The reasons; those heavy ingots that prevent us from believing in what has dramatically disenchanted us.
“Genius is but childhood recaptured at will.” Baudelaire
The paradox is that the less credulous I am, the more convincing my arguments become. Even the ears, the eyes, the sexes that dare to know me, to laugh with me, dare to believe in me. But that is impossible; there is no me without us, nor without the whole, or without nothing. I am so ephemeral, Lorenz’s formula, chrysalis, caterpillar, butterfly, rainbow, and sun, but not here… nor there, but everywhere, like we all are.
“We must have chaos within us to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” Thus spoke Zarathustra
III. So we toast, to enjoy the night with accents of Cioran, and the humble presence accompanied by the miracle. My language is that paradise in which I allow myself to be, to reconnect, and even to revive myself. My words create a filigree of new psalms, of wings unfolded with the ornamentation of screams and sighs, of the caresses that patiently nurture my living heart.
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