Dream of a musical tomb that shall cocoon the mind into an uninterrupted and black slumber, from which even the annihilation of matter won't disrupt the darkness. Lulled to a soothing sleep that will either result in a revival by fire, or a clean quiet death. An urge for the aquatic resting place at the spine of the Atlantic, beyond the black abysses and the shiny creatures to the blue ones and the dancing plants.

Dear Master of Harmonics, dearest artist to my heart, most cherished soul of my soul, creator of skin more coherent to me than my own, how do you keep on? And how do you keep on giving and everfolding?

Tell me please, grant me an answer, please.

I have been humming this poem to myself often lately

The edge of my fading memories, the far off, frozen, unreachable life,
In a crack, in the mirror that no one can hold
Seven broken dolls sing silent tears of mud
Drain the maggots’ blood in the day that will never be returned,
And pierce the eyes with the briars of a clock
That crumbled to dust within seven days,

……..

The cruel judge records the faded letters of my life..
Only a bird with broken wings can sing the truth

………

With light only silence

………

Death is frozen all the way to the edge of its molecules
While the night loves eternity,
at the same time it chops down desire with a stone axe
Drink up the pain of a brain being split open!

………

The twelve winter messengers who were washed ashore
The mirage above the piece of paper
The spent country made of glass
The corpse sings with a necklace of many, many tears on its breast
The duck’s shadow on the cliff where light has ceased to exist
Will the blameless traveler ever tell of this story?

………

When nineteen cold moons have crossed the sky
After the day of pronouncement, and the night has passed
The world will end with the rising of the sun,
What else can we do other than smash the green plate

………

The blue lamplight roams about.
In the jewel of the night, the fake empire will sink into the water…

Water-Clock

Counting even yesterday, all past time is lost time; the very day which we are now spending is shared between ourselves and death. It is not the last drop that empties the water-clock, but all that which previously has flowed out; similarly, the final hour when we cease to exist does not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process.

Seneca

On Pain and Being Human

"Put your right hand in the box," she said.
Paul put his hand into the box. He felt first a sense of cold as the blackness closed around his hand, then slick metal against his fingers and a prickling as though his hand were asleep.
"I hold at your neck the gom jabbar," she said. "The gom jabbar, the high-handed enemy. It's a needle with a drop of poison on its tip. Ah-ah! Don't pull away or you'll feel that poison."
"A duke's son must know about poisons," she said. "It's the way of our times, eh? Musky, to be poisoned in your drink. Aumas, to be poisoned in your food. The quick ones and the slow ones and the ones in between. Here's a new one for you: the gom jabbar. It kills only animals."
Pride overcame Paul's fear. "You dare suggest a duke's son is an animal?" he demanded.
"Let us say I suggest you may be human," she said. "Steady! I warn you not to try jerking away. I am old, but my hand can drive this needle into your neck before you escape me."
"Good," she said. "You pass the first test. Now, here's the way of the rest of it: If you withdraw your hand from the box you die. This is the only rule. Keep your hand in the box and live. Withdraw it and die."
"Your mother survived this test. Now it's your turn. Be honored. We seldom administer this to men-children."
Curiosity reduced Paul's fear to a manageable level. He heard truth in the old woman's voice, no denying it. If his mother stood guard out there . . . if this were truly a test . . . And whatever it was, he knew himself caught in it, trapped by that hand at his neck: the gom jabbar. He recalled the response from the Litany against Fear as his mother had taught him out of the Bene Gesserit rite.
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain ."
He felt calmness return, said: "Get on with it, old woman."
"You will feel pain in this hand within the box. Pain. But! Withdraw the hand and I'll touch your neck with my gom jabbar - the death so swift it's like the fall of the headsman's axe. Withdraw your hand and the gom jabbar takes you. Understand?"
"What's in the box?"
"Pain."
He felt increased tingling in his hand, pressed his lips tightly together. How could this be a test? he wondered. The tingling became an itch.
The old woman said; "You've heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There's an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind."
The itch became the faintest burning. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded.
"To determine if you're human. Be silent."
Paul clenched his left hand into a fist as the burning sensation increased in the other hand. It mounted slowly: heat upon heat upon heat . . . upon heat. He felt the fingernails of his free hand biting the palm. He tried to flex the fingers of the burning hand, but couldn't move them.
"It burns," he whispered.
"Silence!"
Pain throbbed up his arm. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Every fiber cried out to withdraw the hand from that burning pit . . . but . . . the gom jabbar. Without turning his head, he tried to move his eyes to see that terrible needle poised beside his neck. He sensed that he was breathing in gasps, tried to slow his breaths and couldn't.
Pain!
His world emptied of everything except that hand immersed in agony, the ancient face inches away staring at him.
His lips were so dry he had difficulty separating them.
The burning! The burning!
He thought he could feel skin curling black on that agonized hand, the flesh crisping and dropping away until only charred bones remained.
It stopped!
As though a switch had been turned off, the pain stopped.
Paul felt his right arm trembling, felt sweat bathing his body.
"Enough," the old woman muttered. "Kull wahad! No woman child ever withstood that much. I must've wanted you to fail." She leaned back, withdrawing the gom jabbar from the side of his neck. "Take your hand from the box, young human, and look at it."
He fought down an aching shiver, stared at the lightless void where his hand seemed to remain of its own volition. Memory of pain inhibited every movement. Reason told him he would withdraw a blackened stump from that box.
"Do it!" she snapped.
He jerked his hand from the box, stared at it astonished. Not a mark. No sign of agony on the flesh. He held up the hand, turned it, flexed the fingers.
"Pain by nerve induction," she said. "Can't go around maiming potential humans. There're those who'd give a pretty for the secret of this box, though." She slipped it into the folds of her gown.
"But the pain - " he said.
"Pain," she sniffed. "A human can override any nerve in the body."
Paul felt his left hand aching, uncurled the clenched fingers, looked at four bloody marks where fingernails had bitten his palm. He dropped the hand to his side, looked at the old woman. "You did that to my mother once?"
"Ever sift sand through a screen?" she asked.
The tangential slash of her question shocked his mind into a higher awareness: Sand through a screen , he nodded.
"We Bene Gesserit sift people to find the humans."
He lifted his right hand, willing the memory of the pain. "And that's all there is to it - pain?"
"I observed you in pain, lad. Pain's merely the axis of the test. Your mother's told you about our ways of observing. I see the signs of her teaching in you. Our test is crisis and observation."
"Why do you test for humans?" he asked.
"To set you free."
"Free?"

I yet again find myself in the eye of a whirlpool of pain, the close ones around me right now, right here, ache with the leftovers of a pain not dealt with.

Everytime I listen to an other account, I can't help but remember somewhere in my head the test of the Gom Jabbar. It is unfortunate that I can't share this tale with its full resonance with them.

Because in the end, it is the tale of using the easy way out of pain, much like an animal using its reptilian mind directly to escape the pain.

It is a tale of lacking emotional intelligence to deal with pain the healthy way, and rather dealing with it on a physical response level and drowning its effect and noise in other people, in full-time commitment activities.

The close ones around me ached and are still paying the consequences of not embracing these shards: I see this incest in the sufferance and I see the ones dragged in it, unbeknownst to them. I see how being a pinnocchio instead of being a human is a choice, an easy one, and I see the anger at being qualified of such.

To stay on the safe beaches of the human experience to avoid a sudden pain that stroke too deep too early, without the proper tools at hands at that time to deal with it, this I can understand.

Now though, it is the moment where one can choose the hard choice and acquire the tools to properly deal with ones pains, untangle their hold over one's life, and dive in the sea of the human condition.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Or when shitty encounters have surprising collaterals.

This movie was a little jewel on its own and worth indulging the mediocrity of some man-child the likes of which only academia can produce.

Dune

Dune again because I found it in the library and bought it yet again, and because humanity

“A duke’s son must know about poisons. . . . Here’s a new one for you: the gom jabbar. It kills only animals.”