They’ve been noticed, now defined outside this room, the same he took the liberty of stripping of anything that didn’t make sense. He points to the sleepwalkers, dead energy that keeps running a program, and I wonder if they have an inkling, the here I go again voice in the back of their head. ¿Or do they live the scene fully, each and every time?
It was the smugness in their eyes when they told the story; overcast skies in the iris, dark circles under the eye, waning crescents.
Not to fear, the door is closed, shut secure -he assures. Yet they walk on my property; I didn´t mind so much before, but now it´s beginning to be unacceptable, almost unbearable, since Pluto whispers ever so intimately. He shows me forms of energy in reverse, cold electricity, when life discards fragments, cells, and membranes it won’t need to continue.
He shows me the mysteries of charisma in reverse: a facade on the dark side of the Sun; a masking of light from darkened characters, gripped by misfortune, while an audience delights, basking in the cool charm of a sleepwalker who pretends to be fully awake and vigorous.
I must ask now, ¿is our greatest virtue as humans the mastery of enactment, the art of delivering lines? -I utter
And he says yes, we are grand at it, so much, we forgot we made it all up to cover the fact.
What fact?
The fact of pain and suffering.
And if they do wake for moments, when the gifts of random inspiration penetrate the shell by surprise, those jupitarian rays of elation, the venusian comforts of beauty, I can see the basic child left behind, until the tissue closes off again and is back to the program, back to circling the yard, telling the story, repeating the lines.
And then he says it, -time for complete removal.
