sábado, 4 de abril de 2009

The Inner Torture of Secrecy

I know I was
I was, I know
You know I was
And I know I was

But what was I?

Is it a secret between the both of us?

Ok, we'll keep it.

Will you not keep it?
Oh, no, do you pretend to tell the whole world about it?
Well, at any rate, it is past - a past event afterall.

But why do you intend to mumble it aloud?
Whispering to the ravenous crowd?
Perhaps you should cover it with a shroud.

It is dead. And it is mad to go off like a bomb
Splattering little personal truths contained in secret lodgings.

It wasn't secret, dude. No secret is a secret, unless you yourself disregard personal secrets.
If you don't have one, then that is your utmost secret. Any other possibly hidden case brings an ending failure.

Step in 'n step out. Secrets keep flowing out our mouths. If we could help it, we certainly would. But we, humans, we're cosy tyrants sneaked in suits - naked, we are powerless. Newly born blind men. That's what we stand up for when stripped off of our routinary imaginary role.

A role of fools we play in life. No surcease of sorrow will mitigate our loneliness. To be born, we are separated. To die, the string is halved again. Our real life, outside the womb, if you call it, passes unnoticed and without much a-do. We live unmerciful disaster and can't but woo.

Our biological necessities outgrowing our natural inteligence, and penning us in slave-stys. It is so durty and muddied, buddy.

You can tell it any time now. You know, my secret was never a secret - it is actually tasteless, when you see the world we live in. Beauty walking hand in hand with the Beast. Not a sweet sight, for all that it means. Your psychological manoeuver of manipulation assumed that I would be hurt whenever you threatened me to spread some facts of my life. Having escaped your wishfulthinking on purpose, now I see how impotent you've become. You are petrified, frigid, unresponsive. I definitely know why. You can't drench me any further - you've spoilt the soup by your own turbid thinking process. You are incapable of seeing whichever doesn't fit your perspective, huh? Now you face the abysm. The chaos of your shrunken being. Not much to see, nor an enchanting sight I guess. A recoiled snake following its unreachable tail, Ouroboros fated destination.

Ultimately, you destroyed yourself.

And I, who faced myself, who dared to break the mirror of unreality and lies I once wallowed in - I, I have outlived, and my soul has grown. I have reap'd the seeds I sowed.

The wind bloweth...

And I'm a victor. You've finally gone back to the dark forest where your hut is fixed.

And I stand alone here no more - 'cause never in this universe there was somehing akin to loneliness.

Being short-sighted doesn't imply being alone. To feel alone is an entirely different matter. 'Cause even your feelings are distorted - your vision is blurred, your movement is stiff - you overlook your true being on the cliff's edge.

Only to realise your essence is stark naked, an amorfous figure, a glowing worm.

Stop hoping. You must climb the straight rock wall first. You have infinite pebbles as your allies - and gods and goddeses watching your never ending toil behind the scenes.

Um comentário:

Meg disse...

confesso q eu entendi o começo, me perdi no meio e me surpreendi com o final.
"Stop hoping. You must climb the straight rock wall first."
Ter esperança é necessário, eu acho que não deveríamos parar. entretanto fazer alguma coisa é essencial para renovar nossas esperanças. Eu concordo com a moral da história, mas não tanto com o radicalismo ^^