At The Edge
At the edge of the world, I stand, defiled by mud.
In that moment, existence meant nothing to me.
I stood at the threshold of life, wrapped in rage, carrying all I had gathered through my journey: the ammunition of oppression, and the dung of mankind.
Before the door, I stood staring at the remnants of clotted blood. I was bidding farewell to the last thing left of me. I reached out my fingers. It still held something of her body’s warmth.
And I felt nothing else.
Slowly, I turned on my heels like a clown whose performance had ended on stage, returning once more to the misery of his life. I turned to face a life I no longer knew, a life that might drag me farther than this.
I left the silence of that defiled room. I left the building. I crossed the outer garden, passed beneath the trellis, and stepped out of the house into a street stained with filth. The eyes of poultry met mine. From the nearby stables came the neighing of horses.
I left the neighborhood, knowing that my steps would not take me far from myself, and that no amount of walking would carry me out of life.
I had reached everything I had ever wanted, and yet found nothing left worth staying for. The heat of pursuit, the joy of reunion, the anger at every stubborn wall I had met in my life, all of it scattered into dust in the moment of abandonment.
The shock of discovering the truth left with the numbness of loss. For the first time, I did not know what I was supposed to do.
I no longer wanted to do anything.
What had been, had been. So what use was pain?
At the edge of the end, looking back serves no purpose. Only two things remain: you, and yourself. And you are forced to discover that self again from the beginning.
But I could no longer bear my own company.
So how was I to escape myself?
Long ago, I had let go of the hand of the little boy I once was. In his place, I had chosen the companionship of a vast creature made of rage, one that drove me toward revolt and rebellion. But without my noticing, rage had turned into hatred, stained by the desire for revenge. Then hatred turned into astonishment when revenge was finally achieved. And astonishment, in the end, became dullness. Emptiness.
Could I not be granted a little hatred again?
Just enough to keep me alive.
But my hatred was exhausted. My revenge no longer had meaning.
What foolishness had I achieved through vengeance?
I had not seized her by the collar. I had not looked into her eyes. I had not found pleading there, nor regret, nor shame. I had not even found fear, or hatred. She simply vanished. She had been here, and in the next instant, she was elsewhere.
And what greater foolishness would I reap if I did not continue this revenge?
I wanted to see pleading, or at least hatred, in the eyes of those who had helped her against me.
I walked down the street, staring at the things around me.
Everything looked the same.
The blazing sun exposing truth in all its nakedness. The roads boiling with the smell of dampness and sweat. The old city vomiting out its children, spitting every newborn being from its mouth. The stench of betrayal, clamoring through everything.
Alone, I stood at the edge of the world, defiled by sin.
I tried to shed myself, but I did not know how. I tried to contract the sickness of vomiting—the kind that cleanses the soul and washes the gut—hoping it might purge me of the sin inside me. But instead, I received the city’s vomit into my own belly, and swallowed it in submission.
Everything looked the same.
Children screamed from nearby balconies. Vendors spread their goods along the edges of the road, their shouting and quarrels reaching me in waves. Hovercraft circled above the streets, carrying people to their work. Dishes mounted on rooftops fed the buildings with energy. Even the new private cars imported from Europe roared through the streets, leaving behind a black exhaust no different from the color of life.
In that moment, existence meant nothing to me.
I stood at the threshold of life, wrapped in rage, carrying all I had gathered through my journey: the ammunition of oppression, and the dung of mankind.
Before the door, I stood staring at the remnants of clotted blood. I was bidding farewell to the last thing left of me. I reached out my fingers. It still held something of her body’s warmth.
And I felt nothing else.
Slowly, I turned on my heels like a clown whose performance had ended on stage, returning once more to the misery of his life. I turned to face a life I no longer knew, a life that might drag me farther than this.
I left the silence of that defiled room. I left the building. I crossed the outer garden, passed beneath the trellis, and stepped out of the house into a street stained with filth. The eyes of poultry met mine. From the nearby stables came the neighing of horses.
I left the neighborhood, knowing that my steps would not take me far from myself, and that no amount of walking would carry me out of life.
I had reached everything I had ever wanted, and yet found nothing left worth staying for. The heat of pursuit, the joy of reunion, the anger at every stubborn wall I had met in my life, all of it scattered into dust in the moment of abandonment.
The shock of discovering the truth left with the numbness of loss. For the first time, I did not know what I was supposed to do.
I no longer wanted to do anything.
What had been, had been. So what use was pain?
At the edge of the end, looking back serves no purpose. Only two things remain: you, and yourself. And you are forced to discover that self again from the beginning.
But I could no longer bear my own company.
So how was I to escape myself?
Long ago, I had let go of the hand of the little boy I once was. In his place, I had chosen the companionship of a vast creature made of rage, one that drove me toward revolt and rebellion. But without my noticing, rage had turned into hatred, stained by the desire for revenge. Then hatred turned into astonishment when revenge was finally achieved. And astonishment, in the end, became dullness. Emptiness.
Could I not be granted a little hatred again?
Just enough to keep me alive.
But my hatred was exhausted. My revenge no longer had meaning.
What foolishness had I achieved through vengeance?
I had not seized her by the collar. I had not looked into her eyes. I had not found pleading there, nor regret, nor shame. I had not even found fear, or hatred. She simply vanished. She had been here, and in the next instant, she was elsewhere.
And what greater foolishness would I reap if I did not continue this revenge?
I wanted to see pleading, or at least hatred, in the eyes of those who had helped her against me.
I walked down the street, staring at the things around me.
Everything looked the same.
The blazing sun exposing truth in all its nakedness. The roads boiling with the smell of dampness and sweat. The old city vomiting out its children, spitting every newborn being from its mouth. The stench of betrayal, clamoring through everything.
Alone, I stood at the edge of the world, defiled by sin.
I tried to shed myself, but I did not know how. I tried to contract the sickness of vomiting—the kind that cleanses the soul and washes the gut—hoping it might purge me of the sin inside me. But instead, I received the city’s vomit into my own belly, and swallowed it in submission.
Everything looked the same.
Children screamed from nearby balconies. Vendors spread their goods along the edges of the road, their shouting and quarrels reaching me in waves. Hovercraft circled above the streets, carrying people to their work. Dishes mounted on rooftops fed the buildings with energy. Even the new private cars imported from Europe roared through the streets, leaving behind a black exhaust no different from the color of life.
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