Fleshy and violet lips, that's the last normal thing I remember. The classic sequence of emptied wine bottles, shoes and socks thrown into the never quite random chaos of passion, a bed never sufficiently lit where one tried to die upon the other.
Fleshy and violet lips, that's the last normal thing I remember. The classic sequence of emptied wine bottles, shoes and socks thrown into the never quite random chaos of passion, a bed never sufficiently lit where one tried to die upon the other. Her fleshy lips were violet because of the wine – we had drunk enough to melt our souls like the wax of a forgotten burning candle. And those fleshy, violet lips were truly the last normal thing I remember, because at the very moment I brushed them with mine – not so fleshy but equally violet – something strange happened: I vanished. And I didn't vanish in the sense that I had no memory from that moment on; I simply vanished. It must have been the suggestion provoked by all that wine and de André's "L'Ottico", which I had been listening to obsessively at the time, but I found myself travelling through the Void. And you know something, the Void is not as we imagine it – black, infinite and anguishing; or rather, at first it is, but the curious yet fascinating thing is that your unconscious probably decorates it. So I found myself discussing the Hegelian master-slave dialectic with a cow, who seemed not at all indifferent to the matter – indeed, she was far more engaged and perceptive than any ordinary human being could be; I also met Jim Morrison, lying in a bathtub relaxing, but he didn't seem to have much desire to talk. So I continued, with rivers of wine watering it and making my Void sprout, strolling among parables invisible to ordinary eyes – which wasn't even similar to the art of dreaming, because I was perfectly aware of being in the grip of a trip, a trip so hallucinatory that not even a hippie stuffed with acid could have managed it. Cheerful music began to colour my journey, difficult to catalogue in any genre, given that there was the psychedelic element of Pink Floyd, the chaotic power of Pendulum, and a pinch of Nino D'Angelo (the subconscious always plays nasty tricks). I thus found myself colouring the walls of the Void with non-existent colours, until everything gradually faded: the cow no longer wanted to talk about Hegel, Jim Morrison finished his bath (even if he stubbornly refused to get out of the tub), and the cheerful melody vanished too. I found myself strolling with a sparrow – it was red; at a certain point it began to circle around me until it became gigantic, damn it was as tall as me! And then I understood: it was the red sparrow from Bukowski's "Pulp", a grotesque, ironic and melancholic metaphor for death; and so I thought (or perhaps said aloud): "I'm screwed." The sparrow opened its beak, and just as in the book a yellow spiral enveloped me, in the intangible presence of light. I found myself instead, once again before her, brushing those fleshy, violet lips; and it was as if nothing had happened. I thought: "Damn, I've had a Dante-esque trip – you see the Light and then you serenely go back to your life." I thus arrived at two conclusions: the first, more poetic, was that looking at her, once I had returned to brushing her fleshy, violet lips, I noticed that her eyes betrayed her – above them was a veil, beyond the Void (and I finally understood where on earth I had been); the other conclusion is that Dante, to write his Commedia, drank a quantity of wine comparable to the copiousness of his work.
Ah, I forgot a third conclusion: I think I'll stop drinking; or else I'll stop looking into her eyes.
What do you think?
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