The plight of Man
Sunday, 8 February 2009 by Ero-Sennye
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The black birds fly about burdened grey clouds vegatating stolidly over the placid, dull lake, presenting its bosom to the cold dullness of the winter day and the dusty soot from the black puffs of memories that scent of the blackness of my life. The woody wines of the mangroves reach out to the waves that tremble along the surface from and around the tip of my oar, grapple with the waves, cold dull waves that ripple away like portals to nether worlds, black worlds, and the little small cichlids jump in quiet disharmony. Some say they have four hearts. I say, blackness is in their soul, in their spirit, in their eyes, that see beyond the vision of mine, but blur at what I see most clearly. The oars of the boat, paddle away, into tranquility, haunting tranquility, viciously ravaged by fear and by guilt, of the ghastly consequence of uncovering faces in the water, my own face, reaffirming the blackness of a future of irrefutbale desolation and transforming it all into a single little memory, one that forever possesses my mind and directs my escapades from this blackness of my heart. The cold sits in my heart. I have tried to run, to cordon off the past into dereliction, to negotiate with the water, but running away from the blackness is as nearly impossible as running away from the self.
The lake is but a shadow, black like any. The boat, a slighlt inconsistency in the serenity of all exitence around it, however black. Enamoured by this maze, riddled with doubt, the blackness directs my forces, and betrays my inconsequentiality. Inconsequential, yes I feel, in this laboured existence in the search of true blackness. The birds coo, black are they themselves, listlessly into the morning haze, like the coldness of my world, of the lake to which they belong, with indisposition, and their songs reverberate in the confines of my skull like echoes in a tunnel, cold, endless tunnel, that transcends the reaches of the deepest silence that stirs at the heart of the lake. My hands, cold, numb, tissue my pallid cheeks that encroach upon dreamily decorated curves and lines of my face, and the voids on my face, which reveal the blackness underneath, and the voids which even my own hands fear to embrace. The water reflects it all, it is clear, it is exact, it is black but it is honest. I don't see hope. I don't see reason. I am tired of my squalid existence. I wish you would see, repugnant you should feel. But you feel nothing, and that is the curse with which I move, over this lake, in my little smow, paddling away obediently.
I have tried talking with the silence. It speaks with a cadence that mimicks the trails of the wind, and resonates with the grey shimmer of the lantern. But how long must one speak with the silence to become one with the silence, to leave the blackness forever? Staring at my plight, the clouds then burst in tearful epiphany and rain down solemnly with mercy. The clouds are never black. They are grey. The blackness is cold as ever, and reaches out in whichever way to tear my sails apart. Yet, it is this blackness I seek the most. For I am weighed down by this blackness, eternally, for eternity, weighed down by this darkness, condemned to forever stay in pursuit of this darkness, and yet I despise it ardently, most feverishly. This is the the plight of man, and his sexuality.
poetic !!
every time i read you ...i am left stunned !You are so good bro...
you should publish your works.
take care