As Vivências

And When I Am Not

An obscure predator, an entity of primordial hunger, insinuates itself into the sanctuary of my room, an inexorable quest for sustenance fueling its perpetual avidity. But this night, its presence resonated with an unparalleled, almost epiphanic difference. My ingress into the domicile was close upon the midnight hour, sub silentio. The fervidity—a febrile, almost metallic scent—of freshly exposed sanguine matter mandated my stasis, an imperative to remain suspended, awaiting the crux, the denouement, all while I imbibed a glacial infusion of camellia sinensis leaves, sheltered beneath the aegis of the staircase.  It is then that the entity yields to its own unhinged, anarchic cogitations. And from this remote, almost spectral vantage point, the persistent lure of a disillusioned narcotic succor still beckons, a meager ultima Thule.

I finally emerged from the abode close to the nones of the following morning. They, the unseen guardians, had taken meticulous pains to ensure the sagacious locking of every interstice and chamber. But for what teleological purpose? Perhaps the aerie of the attic occludes a diminutive, frail creature, utterly incapable of inflicting deleterious effects upon the proprietor, certainly not the measure of retributive damage that was, in all equity, deserved. Yet, upon my return, I am utterly unable to perceive any palpable alteration; nothing in the aesthetics of the room has suffered a sea change. Perchance, the true locus of significance resides in the recondite, inner landscape. This is but a fragmentary tableau of the events that transpire dum non adsum— when I am not.

I shall excruciate your essence until the inevitable blossoming of your affectus for me,
Because the very patina of your dolor is my proprietary domain.

I am merely a similitude to a pound of granular sugar, inherently unviable to ignite or combust save through adhesion or a symbiotic bond. This, and this alone, constitutes the solitary modus vivendi to ensure your salvation; the only covenant by which we shall both be redeemed. Who, then, is poised to utter the sound of merriment whilst I enter my phase of incandescent blooming? Who will exercise the patience to procrastinate until my physical form is rendered to pulverulent ash? And who, with the requisite fortitude, shall cradle this supremely friable vessel, my body? Hic et nunc... I harbor profound skepticism that such a persona—one capable of executing all this tedious, existential drudgery—even exists.

Let us, then, convene to sit, to dissolve into a synchronous weeping for interminable hours. The matutinal routine, a rigid, unyielding liturgy, arrived to issue its greeting, and I found myself utterly indecisive as to the appropriate responsum. My pulmonary tissues felt surcharged with the piercing acuity of thorns, and my labial commissure was, to my subjective sense, sutured shut. This circumstance engendered a deep, crimson suffusion of shame, a rosy stain upon my cheeks; this is decidedly not the calibre of treatment I am accustomed to dispensing. There remains a vast, unexplored corpus to be unveiled quando ego non sum—when I am absent.

Stratagems or lacrimation? The squalid mountebanks no longer hold any perturbation for my spirit. A commedia dell'arte at the epilogue. Overwhelming every instance of thespian melodrama on the proscenium. How to impart the arcane knowledge of becoming an exemplary shadow? Never, in the annals of my vita, have I been confronted by a fabrication of such resplendent aesthetic merit.

Exsurgam, and let us gyrate beneath the silvery effusion of the moon's light. In solitude, every sound acquires a superior resonance, a purified tone. The entirety of the experience was worthy of the cost, a true quid pro quo. Even though my consciousness was not in situ—not physically present—it all transpired. At least, it is a conviction worthy of credence.