As Vivências

Softening The Darkest Fairytales [2]

Within the veiled precinct of my internal colonnade-a sanctuary architected in the penumbra of consciousness-I give asylum to a creature of fleece, a diminutive ursine simulacrum whose tenancy is mandated not by affection's gentle pull, but by a form of bitter, unyielding custodianship. It stirs with each nascent aurora, its gestures infinitesimal: a subtle unfurling of limbs, verging on the imperceptible, as if nurturing a chimerical hope of egress. Its volition to abscond is a silent, yet relentless current, and I-wielding invisible filaments and a tether spanning leagues of emotional terrain-ensure its utterance shall instigate no further dissonance.

Deep within this temenos, shrouded by a crepuscular luminescence, where the flux of temporality seems to congeal it into a state of perpetual inertia, it resides. Not to be cherished, but to be held in perpetual quarantine from the contagion of love-that saccharine venom which rends the soul more savagely than it mends. Should any soul, with puerile inquisitiveness, venture to solicit twice the rationale for its persistent proximity, the rejoinder would resonate, deceptively simple yet utterly impervious: to guarantee its absolute inviolability henceforth. It stands as my corporeal relic of negation, the consecrated reliquary of my emotional circumscription.

Here, under the austere custodianship of silence, repose not merely its pliant contours, but also the most exquisite fables, resolutely defiant of expiry. Narratives intricately interwoven with a desire so intense, so nearly libidinal in its yearning to distill luminance from the densest catacombs of remembrance-not for the balm of absolution, but for the stark immediacy of exposure: a precise incision upon the very dermis of time, revealing a hue more tender, more inherently beautiful than the nascent flesh itself. The ursine effigy transcends mere artifact; it is an icon of steadfast resistance, a potent symbol of memory held taut between the precipice of touch and the yawning chasm.

With each deliberate ministration that sustains its inert form, my consciousness undergoes a subtle efflorescence, as if reaching out to caress other kindred spirits with its empathetic, voiceless vibration-an echo traversing the labyrinthine topographies of shared trauma, binding discrete subjectivities. And within the crucible of this arduous process, my re-emergence into the world externalizes not as a strident clamor, but as an internal scintillation: an unprecedented genesis, aligning itself with entombed visions, trembling on the verge of connection, forging ahead into novel vectors of revelation.

And in the ultimate culmination, it-that fleecy confidant, that tacit accomplice to every internal midnight-a creature seemingly congratulating itself in its perpetually haunted solitude, remains anchored: neither victim nor executioner, but the stoic witness to a practice of restoration, profoundly intimate and inexorable, which seeks to mollify, with hands both tender and eyes ceaselessly vigilant, that which once shrieked with an agony unbearable in the very core of my being.