Ανασκαφές, Μέρος Δεύτερο

Και συνεχίζουμε. Για το παρακάτω κείμενο δεν έχω ακριβή ημερομηνία, αλλά γράφτηκε σίγουρα κάπου στα τέλη του Οκτώβρη του 2007, σαν "συνέχεια" του προηγούμενου:

  "Hey, little voice of the night. Your resort is opened and it awaits you. The resort is a dark, dusty semibasement. You cannot notice its messiness due to the dim light. There is a vent confronting east. Each morning I gaze the specks of dust and their brassy dances in the light. In fact, you cannot be sure what time it is in this room. Besides, it doesn't matter. Time is represented by numbers. I don't need numbers in my room. They cannot count feelings, knowledge, pain. They cannot express who you are and how much you love.

   So the light- it reveals the minor things that we cannot notice. Light here? I think that I let it enter this place in order to give myself the opportunity of arguing it. Light is pitiless. You cannot hide anything when light touches you. One of the most tragic moments of the day is when the sunrays caress you- you cannot receive such light without being happy. But I feel wretced. Oh yes. The sun makes me cry. I don't wanna talk about light anymore, I'm coming back in my room-

   In this room you can smell the scent of droughty roses- they are dead but they keep me a good company. I smell them insatiably, and I prefer them from the fresh roses which are full of life. I hate those lively roses, red roses that boys offer to the girl they love. Then the girl keeps the rose in a book, to retain the memory even when the rose is dead. But my roses do not represent any memory. They are dead and faithful to me. They remind me the beauty of an abandoned cemetery-

   Everything in this room is old and timeworn. It reminds you the room of a dead man- death prevails here. A soul tries to accommodate its doleful shape in the corners.- There is also a rusty chest. I ignore if there exist a key to open it -who knows how I can open it, and who knows what it bears. It may hide a treasure. Or simple jetsam. I don't really mind to open it-  All things seem dead. But it is not the reason that I am unhappy, this decay is charming. I am afraid of the silence- the silence that cannot be broken by music. If I cry desperately, I am sure that this despiteful silence won't be broken.

   The days- endless, repeated, implacable, like slow drops of tepid water that mold my soul. And every night I fight with the walls- the walls are alive, as night hours pass they approach me menacingly. I feel that someday they will neutralize me. I look after them through puffs of smoke- smoke is indefinite, elusive and it gives you the feeling of uncertainty. There is a unformed shape of smoke without substance. Smoke burns me and kills me. It makes my fight with the walls more unbearable. Smoke cannot hold me while I fall interminably-

   I try to read one of those timeworn, white-off books which lie in the dusty bookshelves. I want to overpass the sinister walls. The old book smells musty paper. It is one of those books that bear wise words - you read them , you feel tears in your eyes, you nod the head feeling acerbated and professed and you think: "yes, it is exactly as the book says". Books make you forget. But they do not soothe your pain. No matter how many wise things I read, no matter how I feel that I go ahead, I am still pent in a dark, dusty room, the place near me is empty, my hands are deadly frozen, and no one exists to hold them in order to drive away this fateful freeze-

   Night bears fairy tales. At night love is more painful. At that time I am tempted to meet death. -Oh, time has passed. I see again the twilight from the little window. The walls have started to withdraw. Words are outlandish stardoms. They annoy me. I can finally remain silent.-"

Υποσημείωση 1: Όχι, δεν είμαι άσχετη όσον αφορά τη χρήση των σημείων στίξης, απλά για λογοτεχνικοσυναισθηματικούς λόγους τα τοποθετώ όπως βλέπετε παραπάνω, δεν είναι τίποτα, επιρροές από τον λατρεμένο Rainer Maria Rilke είναι -και ντροπή μου, να τολμώ να δηλώνω ότι έχω ως έμπνευση τον Rilke, μα ποια είμαι τέλος πάντων.

Υποσημείωση 2: Οι τρεις τελευταίες φράσεις του παραπάνω κειμένου είναι κλεμμένες στεγνά και απροκάλυπτα από το μυθιστόρημα της Μάρως Βαμβουνάκη "Η Μοναξιά Είναι Από Χώμα" -είναι όμορφο βιβλίο για καταστάσεις μη - παλέψιμες.

Γκρο μπισού!