Compassion


You came last night and you asked why I never thought where the short monologues go after the lights are out. I have thought about it, I just didn’t say it. You came and you told me sweet words that I believe and you believe and we believe, personal testaments that are each time new, but thankfully, thankfully correctly spelled.

And I remembered how wrongfully those needy beings act in my limited firing range – which is nonetheless particularly uncomfortable – and again, again the pillow of disdain emerged from the corners where the white blood cells constitute the sterile empire of an excessively functioning logic.

But the gaze underneath the eyelids had no time to toughen up, the walls became pierced membranes on the bed, and through the myriad Kerkoportas tiny pieces slipped in and put together yet another question: why don’t you sympathize with them?

And the unbiased logic rushed to respond: “because if I recall the reasons why I should, I will find their siblings in here.” And then you came and asked me why I never thought where the short monologues go after the birth of the testament, where the wishes, the expectations and the prophecies go, and why nothing ever happens like we aspire if everything is in our own hand, if everything is under control, if everything is alright. And I was frightened and I thought, “it sympathizes, it has found us” and right away like always everything turned into fire and marble and steal and from myriad corners everything screamed “bring down and burn” because it is the sole thing more preferable than to sympathize and be sympathized. It is the only thing left for you if you don’t pity yourself enough to know that however right your path may be, you will always be inadequate to walk it, however high you might reach to hang your goals, your delicate fingers will never bear to pull the bowstring hard enough.

Misfit creatures in a world of harmony where logic is always a string out of tune, strange creatures with legs that lift us to chaos but that break with the first step or the first jump, collapse and we fall back to the harmonic pendulum that shrouds us. Beings whose gaze reaches farther than they can travel. The small and the forsaken never attempt to get there. The small and the forsaken sympathize – even without knowing – with their own limited firing field, which is indeed extremely comfortable, until someone like us shows up, with our crystal skyscrapers for legs to spit on them from up above, before we too collapse and fall right next to our common new testaments, without wishes, expectations or prophecies. And in our wreckage they dredge the short monologues we had before the lights went out and some admire them, some puzzle over them, the ones who were like us reminisce – but all without exception, sympathize with us.

And last night that you came to ask me how come I have never thought where the short monologues go, where the longest chronicle lines of linen and cotton acts and the smithereens of silences go, the wishes, the expectations and the prophecies, I wanted to tell you, “I have,” but I had no compassion for myself to do it.

P.S. How I love this recording..

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