Oh, the wondrous power of a tiny mindless virus!
Flu, as influence; and see, all the influence you're exercising on me, little monarch which never knew to rule, to whom nothing less than a gargantuan human body was given as a reign to rule, little monarch which never knew [h[h [h [how] w] w]w] to rule, whose tentatives, to find glory to be written in the history of all the David who tamed their own assigned Goliath, only end up slaying the life and bruising the still-life under your command, and all you get are the scorn, the protests, the rebellion of those who were supposed to venerate you like a deity, and a page in the history books so dense of bad deeds that you wish you could put together your bones and resurface from where the warms crawl and implore all of the children going to school to hand you their history textbook and let you rip that unfortunate page and gnaw it to let your stomach juice dilute and smear the infaming words into a wordlessness you can finally digest!
Oh, I have dedications to write! To people I love!
There are armies of fire-coated smiling soldiers, with their flaming chariots all lined in rows, awaiting for my packages of wonders to take flight and deliver smiles on my behalf, is they were my hugging arms, and my caressing hands, and my index and medium fingers pushing up the corners of the mouths of the receivers!
And you, little monarch whose ignorance is the north to the south of your actual power, you, pull and squeeze in your little unexisting hands the synapses of my neural net, bending them and elongaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaating them, and knotting them together, like a seasoned old mariner whose eyes watched the sun too much, whose hands don't even need the eyes to watch, and I'm here with electrical pulses of ideas and inspirations and thoughts making twisted turns around those knots, at times touching each other, but hardly flowing, so often stuck, unresolved... but then, is it really you, the responsible, or rather the intimidating task I feel sweetly weighing on my bioedegradable, bi-sectored flood-governing pump, that to pay adequate hommage to the ones I'll be writing for?
Oh, mindless little emperor of my body whose throne, yours, will soon crumble under your own inconsistency!
You might rule my body, and let me kneel with tiredom, and make my sore neck surrender under the weight of a head which seems stuffed of cotton made from rusty iron fiber, but you, with your immense power on the world of my body, you, little arrogant, you will never be able to fine tune and gently pluck the thin strings of my soul to make them play like those stars who are far away and can't touch me (sic!), yet, I can call by their name, and by my name know of me and love me.
Oh, your vicious strength, able to pull back my shaking muscles during my tiring march, as if you were chains and ropes all wrapped around, binding me to rocks and stones and their amasses piled up by people whose names are long forgotten, yet whose dark intent has put root in the ground...
I move so slowly, my reflexes being all flashed, like blinded by the thickest darkness, as if my bones were turned into rubber by the touch of a philosopher's stone gone astray, as if my muscles had been petrified by Medusa, and I don't know any more, in my fogged understanding, among the rusty cotton in my head, across the walls making feel my thoughts so unreachable to myself, whether it's me, the one being slow, or if all the time has been pulled a brake onto, by your twisted command, as if to prevent me from hoping that I might recover my previous hurring step, and let myself drown in your suffocating slowness, and let myself be overwhelmed and crushed and buried by the idea of the piles of ideas, and inspirations, and notes I keep building, towering to the skies, to the last shades of blue, to the sparkling little stars which are actually so enormous that we would be not noticeable at their all-engulfing presence, as if they were to-dos which took a life of their own and were feeding themselves of all the possible tasks one might charge oneself by taking pen and paper and letting one unload on the other, or perhaps the other suck from one...
But now tell me, never-mine usurping king, you self-absorbed virus who dethrones for only to be dethroned, ruler of a body for a week or two whose betrayal my realm itself will punish with your rejection from this world, don't you see how all my enthusiasm, now feeding thoughts whose extension bring me at once in outer abysses I'll never touch and in inner ones I still haven't found the bottom, now fuelling emotions and feelings which burn more than the core of our star, now penned in wild and brave lines, can't be touched, all this out-of-control beauty blossoming from my love for everything, for the existing, for all that's conceiveable and worthy of love?
You cannot touch it, all this, never-mine mindless king.
And while you sit of your throne of my body, thinking you will rule forever, my soul is pushing me through, towards the Day of Freedom.
And that's the story of every tyrant blinded by their own "me", "myself" and "I".
You can put chains, to a body.
But a soul, it's more free than the daydreams of someone sentenced to life imprisonment, floating free along the trajectories of nebulae roaming like in a dance around the blessed Throne of God.
Since tonight I've been finding myself in such a state of sense of expressive freedom!
Like if the dams of imagination had been shattered... and I couldn't be happier!
(May it last, and may it first.)
(c) Daniele Bergamini "danbergam"
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