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We’ve been reduced to being prisoners. From human beings we became dogs, forced to spend their existence in the cages that were once called home. You would have thought that no government in the world could accomplish this, no religion and no god. But here we are, enslaved by a virus, at the mercy of an unseen enemy. We give salvation in exchange for a life confined between four walls, believing that death we fear so greatly and which awaits us outside will thus be kept at bay.
We are so wrong! How naïve we all are! Death is more patient and a lot more perseverant then we are. She waits for us, she’s lurking around the corner and, even if she lets us believe that, for the moment, we have succeeded in avoiding her, she will find us eventually and she will ensnare us. Sooner or later, we’ll all fall under the blade of her scythe.
So what’s the point in postponing the moment? A life lived in fear is barely a life. There are moments when I feel like tempting her, challenging her to a hazardous game of hiding and seek. I know that I won’t come out as victorious, but at least my veins will pulsate with blood once more and my limbs will vibrate with adrenaline for one last time. I will be alive.
Do you like to be controlled? To have your thought muzzled, your mouth gagged for that it can say no more what it feels? The taste of isolation is even bitterer after we have realized that we knew how sweet freedom could be but it is no more.
The condition of the animal has now become superior to us, while we have willingly accepted to hide like cowards inside the cave of our own fears. Ignorance numbs our sensations, but that’s just the way we want it. We want to feel no more, to fall unconsciously into a deep sleep which shall annul every feeling, every thought, all but our rudimentary instinct of survival. The awakening will not bring us illumination. But only the eternal.
***
To create. To create. I must create. Without creation, the man is dead. It’s just an animal. We are all animals. Food, water, and sex. We need nothing more in order to exist. To procreate. Thank God we have Creation. She’s the one that awakes our consciousness to life. She’s the one that makes us live. Because of her, we are alive. I must create. I must create. I must create in order not to die...
I’m writing these lines in a febrile state, the words are coming out of my head, are being spilled on the paper. The tongue is no longer the instrument of communication. But the writing is. I’m writing. I’m writing in order to exist. To ensure that I will come to live another day. It’s been a long time since I didn’t see the sun. I don’t know if it’s day or night, if it’s yesterday, today or tomorrow. I only know that it is a day. I only know that I still am. My mind is nervously sparkling out a new neuron connection like a tinder box. I feel them giving birth to scintillations that pop through my brain like popcorn inside a microwave. Pop! Bang! Their smell is coming out through the fuming ears and it’s like I forgot about all the other body parts. I forgot about my long inactive legs, the nose, the sealed mouth, the unsatiable belly, the numb crotch. I can only feel my hands, as they slide across the keyboard like a pianist’s hands across the keys, with the same frenzy, with the same oblivion towards the self and the entire world. I can only feel my eyes, that palpate the words that exited the brain, the heated brain that continues to give them birth like a fertile mare. I forgot about the smell, the hearing, what’s the use of them, what’s the use of us?
There is no us. We are just an illusion that slipped from the grasp of its own Creator and then banished on earth to serve their punishment of being. To be. I learned once that to be is superior to have, but I don’t remember either of having, nor of being. I’m writing, I’m still writing out of a desire to have, a desire to be. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe not... I cannot have myself, I cannot be myself.
I look into the mirror and see nothing. I touch myself, I see myself, but I cannot see myself. Am I nothing more but a figment of my imagination? A fragile thought that lacked the power to find itself a body?
I became a night owl. The day is no longer good for me, the sun refused to ever come out again. The fear rules.
BY ANDREEA FLORESCU
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