Denial

It was denying everything I was. It was a curled piece of blood, that I dreamed about afterwards, head and tail, encircling a tiny, pulsating heart. It was flushed away. A doctor gave another doctor a nod, and that was it, disposed of, ejected. Finished. Life minus is better sometimes. Although life itself is supposed to be precious. Although lives can be wonderful. More are not always wanted. Life itself sometimes is a liability, and it threatens something else that is precious. Something which is akin to freedom ripped from duty (if that even exists anywhere). The scrapping, pulsating slipper, leather scraping hard on the tarmac beneath. That is something of other days, days in ghost towns in which hypermarkets loom large and try to pre-define people’s tastes and needs. And yet those hypermarkets have not encroached upon every moment of the lives they encircle. Inside moments, albeit for the absence of recourse to law, albeit for injustice, naked, clear for all to see, there was still a crust that screamed an authenticity that rights and justice could never express. And then, the lurching doubt appeared, far off on a clear horizon, that maybe the rights and justice themselves could work against that authenticity. That the truth could be decimated by the onslaught of potentialities, by the caution of the circumspect, the same circumspect that remember the weak can still feel, the same circumspect that know that power cannot survive. There is something deeper than equality, maybe something closer to the pulse of the world, although equality itself, is an honourable thing to strive towards. It is not worth ruining everything for. It is not worth returning to the very beginning for.