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will,
I assert,
my own
unhappiness, it is part of myself, I am nothing without it, I feed
on it: it offers me no false hope because it offers me no hope, it
is kind to me in its careless brutality, it does not lie to me. It
offers me a knot I cannot unravel and a blunt sword to cut it with.
It laughs at me, to be sure, but to my face, not behind my back. It
humbles me but it does not humiliate me. "Whereas beauty . . . " and imagine the length of the accusation. And, accused, what can beauty do but bow her head? All true, in every instance, except one: beauty offers the glory of the moment, but what you took for a promise was given. Beauty is born in the moment in which beauty dies. There's nothing left. There is no future for beauty. If you are lucky, there's a memory. ***
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You knock on a door. A voice inside calls
out, "Coming!" The door fails to open. Repeat of the above. Repeat of the above. Repeat. Frustration begins to gnaw. You must get in. You hit the door. No response. Hit again. Swear under your breath. You call out, with false politeness: "Hello? Is anybody there? Can I please come in?" Silence. You stand before the door with arms akimbo, bite your lower lip; imagine various levels of violence (shouting, kicking the door, hammering it with a large stick, threatening the people inside, etc.). You consider other means of entry. Unfor-tunately, there are no other means of entry. You swear again.  |
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