If the mirror on the back of my hand would be alive, it would cut itself in a precarious large and vastly inordinate x. A sort of cut that is not a letter, it is not worthy of inverted commas, it is not worthy of capitalisation. It isn’t strong enough to yell or hit. It flows, as if part of a vein, as if constructed strictly as plasma and snakes, and as it slithers endlessly it whispers.
The quiet hurts more than anything else. When it says no
The cross is more powerful than any foam around the lips in the morning or late afternoon when toothpaste tastes like the death of the night. The x pulsates like a dying lamp on the side of the street. The sentiment is thriving, seductive and so easy to accept. So easy to embrace, a skin of sorts, raw and bloody – it fits perfectly.
There is no way of calculating probabilities, there is no odds, there is no this or that prix viagra pharmacie. There’s the no, wielding the power of a thousand rabid horses willing to trample a colony of ants. There’s the no, wielding the power to chew slowly at one’s toes in a show of acceptance and consensual termination. It is the no of a million pills one should have taken and chose not to.
It is the whisper of every day.
The dripping of an oil lamp that will soon go out in desperation.
The no that follows a step behind and leads five steps ahead. The false sense of security, of wisdom.
It is when one is being buried alive in autumn leaves and insists that it is but a small July wind.
The x on the back of the hand seems to have attached itself to the forehead and it now lights the way deceivingly, a mere foot around the head. It attracts the mosquitoes of depression, of uncertainty and of pain. It burns the moths of the morning, the ones who forgot to leave home and hide. It makes reading apparently easy, but it kills the optical nerves with strain.
It makes one’s eyes close in silent suicide, never to open again.
It makes one forget there is a second hand and a second back of the hand.
A moment too late, there are two crosses, two of the large and barbaric cuts. It means one has cocooned in the no and it the no now has one.
It makes waking up a morbid denial of a denial of a denial and it makes one know not to ask about the no.