Ever been there? The smudge stage is when you feel precisely like that. A smashed, drying in the cold sun, possibly stinky, little smudgy thing. You may even be as happy as being smeared on God's sole. Still, the stinkiness and the dryness will remain the same, regardless whose foot did the job.
Smudge is not to be confused with any stains. Stains have history, who, when, how... Smudge is an enigma. Smudge doesn't even know if it exists or if it's an illusion, a blurry sight at the end of a difficult day. Stain allows cleaning. Smudge avoids touching.
It's when there is no sadness because all feelings have evaporated. No passion because the vital juices have been thoroughly drained. No power because the smashing has been performed rightly and took a long time. Each drop of life has been squeezed out, each dream - torn apart. With scaring attention to detail, the foot has turned, twisted, pressed, taken a step back, checked and pressed again. There has been a kind of sadistic pleasure. There has even been a spark of creativity at one point. After all, draining vital juices is a serious business and takes more than physical strength.
What happens next is the question that bothers me... Does the smudge suck up the smasher's own life and continue its smudgy march? Or does it turn into one of those black holes in the space, a piece of emptiness in time? None of these suits me. I'll wait and see if my dryness allows me.
It's such a cheap paradox to write this on April Fool's. Lying has so much to do with the smudge stage... And when is a lie fun, and when is a lie - murder?
No comments:
Post a Comment