Bitter beard I

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beard
beard

Silence.

The tension of the walls accumulated in a chain of torn down walls, maybe, because of the interior music of a thousand forgotten particles in the curtain. The smoke from lime’s ribs woke up alongside the dawn that have simply entered the room like they would wish to brutally yell in the man’s face, a bitter beard that’s at a right range from his own putrid thoughts.

He doesn’t react: he doesn’t drink, run, he doesn’t dare to put his dry lips on the pipe’s varnished wood. He can’t even look at himself from his own corner, to throw himself and definitively tear apart the pieces from the meat of the bed.

Everything is dust of forgotten memories, but so forgotten, that the unconscious can’t distinguish which is the look and which is the eye… Which one’s the leg and which is the hand, real blood or illusion, book or page… . Which is the illo tempore moment snd which is the birth of mammal spiders banished from the light.

Anyway, the room in which a man shelters himself doesn’t matter since it holds many glass shards, that should not be carried with the help of physical force; they detach themselves in the air and cut the multitude of bacteria huddled in thoughts. You sometimes sit and think about how would you react if a magical gramophone would open, that could erase the humble past and the meaty present, the dusty room and the bloody heart, the name of objects and their form’s emptiness…. But, brought back to reality, you realize that it’s the foolish thought of a mentally ill old man.

Silence.

The beard of the wise, like how he likes to name himself in his turbulent states, seems to be frozen together with the hand responsible for keeping the closed time healthy, and him, in an old time of one hundred years, a time that can’t be treated by any doctor… . A few seconds silence, that’s how much the glimpse fixed on the drawer lasts, then the internal chaos begins… and it begins… it drips subtly between the edge of the drawer and the wood itself… and it starts small with words named, by us, the pills.

First pill, Monday, 12:00 o’clock, the pipe is still, the music is softly heard, the thoughts pulsate, the window shutters dance with pieces of brick detached from the walls that are dripping…

And they drip and drip until the internal organs of the wise start talking about literature:

”Literature must capture moving sentiments”, said the heart jammed between arteries.

”No, it’s not like that, literature must present day to day life, a simple life!” revolted the liver, sick of the fiction that he had to accept.

“What sentiments, what life? Literature must present human instincts, physiological!” yelled the stomach from a dark corner.

” None of you are right- yelled the lungs, to calm down revolted spirits- literature must be about metaphors, about existence’s hidden meanings.

”Hah, hah… you’re really stressing over this discussion, literature must be about anything: fiction, life, human instincts, metaphors, but, most of all, about reason… . Literature puts you to thought, to clear the dust from…” the brain couldn’t finish his argument, because an exterior voice exploded all of a sudden.

It was the voice of the blood, that exploded from the wise’s mouth:

”I was a man of letters that not only devoured a book, but he ripped it furiously. Words deluded me, made me hate them a lot, but a whole lot… . Now I’m a coward, that threw every paperwork in a corner of the room, from the dust’s wish of doing their autopsy… . Oh, I feel them bleeding, but, I wonder, why don’t I feel any pity for them, why can’t I react, why can’t I save them?

Yeah, I forgot I was making conversation with myself, since I tried to communicate with the walls and they fell over, with the bulkheads and they flew who knows where, with the bed and he let itself eaten, him too, by the dust. I think that this deafening silence threw me in the corner and only allows me to watch the mess around me… the mess of my consciousness! But why can’t I move, again, the crisis starts again… .

Second pill, Monday, 16:00 o’clock, the movement of the gramophone warms up the atmosphere is such a way that some books, books that survived the havoc, opened by themselves, flying on a white nightstand at the edge of the bed.

If you sit and listen from afar or if you live in one of the blocks that can be seen fron the window, you’d still hear nothing, maybe you’ll indifferently pass over it with you eyes or, better said, with your eardrums… . Why? Because a new conversation between organs, that have such a vast literary culture:

” Literature is made up of characters that love it, I believe, because I read a lot in my life to reach this conclusion.” The heart was getting excited about telling every kind of romantic books, to describe the characters that were in love, to cry at the end of happy endings.

“No, love destroys characters, it makes them go crazy!” supported the liver full of hatred.

” It doesn’t make them all go mad, but I must say it makes the majority” said the stomach firmly.

” You have no heart, no trace of sentiments!” Continued the heart, crying.

” Well, how can we not have a heart, we have you!” Laughed everyone else.

” Lucky you have me keeping you alive, ah, I won’t lend you anymore books from my immense library!”

”What, you’re serious? Those sappy books?” Asked the lungs ironically.

“Yes, those!”

The heart got mad at them, so much so that it left them breathless for a couple of seconds.

“Calm down, this literature is made out of many types of characters…”. And the speech was yet again interrupted by nature’s song, a song that bothered the wise one.

” Music, since when am I waiting for you, oh, you, wind, blow over this old gramophone… . Do, Re, Mi… . Musical notes, life of an artist… . Wow, I wonder why books don’t cry, are they maybe still alive?”

” I’m afraid of turning back, I’m paralysed here… . Not even the pipe lets my hand be free, even my socks aren’t leaving, my slippers are crying! I don’t know if it’s like that, but I feel them open… . It’s like they sent me their sweat, but I can’t wipe myself, I can’t move… . Again, the crisis starts again… or maybe, wait, I only feel it a little. It’s an anthill sensation, like the ants are climbing on me and they stay there… . It hurts, they stopped, I … am fro-zen!

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Author: Florentina Pocovnicu

 

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