You’ve left me to the wolves.
You didn’t even know they exist, or that you were doing it.
They are far more terrifying than anything you have ever seen. If you had seen them, i would know that by the marks on your soul.
I saw more than you.
You didnt see the bright signs imprinted on my forehead.
It was a catastrophe.
I tried to live life pretending there were no wolves, and that i didn’t need … i didn’t even know what i need, just not this.
I tried to live life pretending it wasn’t horrible.
That wholeness didn’t exist and that I’d never lost it.
Now every time i get closer to wholeness, i get closer to cracks that are deeper than the object they cracked up.
I fear that i will only be able to reconstruct the shape of what should have been and what is needed from the shapes of the cracks.
I will have to build a new identity on the cracks.
I will have to reconstruct the original colours in the photograph from its negative.
Reading everything upside down, and reversed in time.
Also, the only way of reading out the cracks of identity is with the body. Their message is essentially shapes flavours intricate lightning veins of pain, and my only way to do this is the dispassionate contemplation of a body torn apart in the fangs of wolves in slow-motion, with a tolerance to pain cautiously assembled over decades.
The last guest was right, the idea of the inherent badness of pain isn’t exempt from questioning and perhaps has to yield in major ways to make this livable.
Because the good has to be found in that which exists.