Walking in a garden of black roses, I can feel the cold breeze from the endless sea. It is dark, but I feel comfortable under the shivering light of the full moon covered by dark clouds. At every single one of my reluctant steps, I smell a rotten odor strangely agreeable. In my ears, I can hear an infinite violin sonata, but I can not discern if it comes from outside me or if it is playing inside my own self.
No, I am not a vampire, nor a zombie, nor any of those stupid characters. I am alive, I can feel the pleasure of the air fulfilling my lungs, but I am sure that the dead cells of my skin are constantly falling to the mud, giving space to the new ones that would endure the pains of waiting their immediate death. I am alive, but I know that I am nothing more than a walking group of dying cells, sustained by feeding on the meat of cooked corpses.
I have no memory that I can be perfectly sure to be true, nor any clear ascertains about the future. In fact, what are memories, beyond the remains of fullish illusions of a body, holding to his own eyes in the hope of capturing doubtful lights of reality. What is reality, beyond rays of light reflecting in material bodies, interpreted by the ignorant muscles of a certain brain. What is the brain, beyond a bag of cells trying desperately to send electrical signals to each other. And the future… I should not waste words about the future, the future is phantoms of reality, moaning dreams and fears.
I only know that I am walking in a garden of black roses, feeling the cold breeze from the endless sea. It is dark, but I do not feel comfortable anymore under the shivering light of the full moon covered by dark clouds. The infinite violin sonata pauses for a moment, and I can hear nothing but the echoes of the eternal sound of silence, I can feel nothing but the neutral ecstasy of the emptiness. Haha, how silly I am!.. Of course I cannot know nothing, of course I cannot know if I am walking in this garden of black roses, reality is nothing but the vain illusions of a desolated self. But I keep walking, dirtying my feet in the mud, trying desperately to believe in my undulant and unclear senses. I do not know anymore if I am hearing a violin or a cello, if the black roses are roses or some other black flower whose categorization I will never be able to know.
Ignorant! How can we walk in this world, knowing only our most absolute ignorance? How can we manage the fear of the most absolute unknown in every single aspect of life? Where do we draw the courage to move our feet forward to another point in the ground, carrying only uncertainties and fear? Like the dark knight running in the desolated forest, trying to escape from an unknown that he cannot kill with his sharp blade, here we are, equilibrating ourselves in the thin line of life, ready to fall in the realms of death at any single instant.
Where do we draw the courage to move our feet forward to another point in the ground, carrying only uncertainties and fear? Somehow my heart does not beat fast while I walk in this garden of black roses, but I can feel despair and fear growing slowly and slowly inside the depths of my mind. It is uncomfortable how familiar I feel in this strange atmosphere, like I was only in the living room of my own house, but past midnight, at that time in the dawn where kids see monsters and phantoms in their own dwellings, and feel a fear that they would never believe should be possible in the comfortable and unreliable lights of the day. But kids are foolish, you know, they still believe in their senses, they still believe in the safety of light, they think their parents and teachers actually know something.
I see a huge old clock under a dead tree. Its numbers are written in blood, and its body is full of holes. The pointers move slowly, cutting the air with a rusty sound. I move forward, trying to reach the clock, but the distance does not change as I move. I step, I move ahead, but the clock is always there, farther away, laughing at me. My heart beats fast, despair reaches the foolish cells of my brain. I try to walk faster, faster, faster, I run. But the clock is always there, farther away, laughing at me.
Time. One step, one instant, two steps, two instants, what is between two seconds, two milliseconds, two microseconds, what are the mysteries hidden between two instants, in the middle of nothing where the whole life stops, I run, but the clock is always there, rusty, cutting the air, I can not perceive the interval between the movement of the pointers, it is too far away, black holes in the body, numbers made of blood, under a dead tree, I run my body moves fast the black roses pass faster and faster away of me I cannot see the undulant movement of the endless sea I run but the clock is always there laughing at me what is the time between two instants how can I grasp how can I reach how can I hold that moment of time and enjoy the pleasures of the most absolute nothing as I am sure that cannot be nothing in the middle nothing in the time between two moments nothing in the space between two points but I wish I could hold it and laugh at my own success my own foolishness my own perverted and virulent view of life
I stop. I am tired. I cannot feel the air in my lungs, but I am sure that the cells are still dying and falling into the floor. I look at the mud, I look at the dirty. I look ahead, and the clock is still staring at me with sarcasm in his eyes. I look at the dirty, I look at the mud. I look ahead, and the clock is not there anymore.
Where am I? When am I? I am between two instants of time, I am between two points of space. When am I? Where am I? I am in the hidden of a second, I am in the instant of a place. I am in that point of time of the most absolute and infinite nothing, in that point of space where everything stands dead and still. I am in that only moment of place, in that only point of time where we can finally understand ourselves.
I am falling. If I could remember my life, I am sure I would see it passing in front of my eyes, but I had no life although I was living. If I could remember my life I am sure I would feel sad for those that I am leaving, for those that would feel pain in seeing my rotten body inside a dark coffin. Stupid fools!… I extend hands that they would never be able to hold, rotten hands eaten by worms. Wait! I am not leaving, I am still walking in a garden of black roses, feeling the cold breeze from the endless sea. It is dark, but I feel comfortable under the shivering light of the full moon covered by dark clouds. At every single one of my reluctant steps, I smell a rotten odor strangely agreeable. In my ears, I can hear an infinite cello sonata, but I can not discern if it comes from outside me or if it is playing inside my own self.
It is half past midnight. It is the time of the beast. I see corpses walking in the garden of black roses, looking at me with defying eyes. Their body is covered with black mud, dripping to the floor in long thin lines. They murmur the songs of silence, they play stillness with their fingers. They move slowly in the garden of black roses, they move slowly in the endless sea. I look at my hands, there is no mud, but I feel strangely sure that I am one of them. My mouth, as if it was beyond my own self, opens itself and murmurs a long and painful sound of silence.
There is no time. There is no space. There is no self. There is no life. There is no death. There is only this long garden of black roses and the infinitude of the endless sea. I close my eyes full of mud and the only certainty that I have is not life nor death, but the most absolute and complete ignorance.