We were neither good nor bad. Those are words invented by us, poor biped beings, to chronicle our actions.
In retrospect, I think we resided in the unknown, in the fuzzy space situated at the core of that city: a city born from some kind of inexplicable cosmic irony.
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
image: YuriyZhuravov; Shutterstock; [link]
Oh, that quarter of the city wounded by its own sexuality.
Every street filled with shadowy characters: hungry scavenger birds looking to devour each other’s flesh.
Exposed skin and uttered sexual desires; bodies becoming their own souls’ mortuaries; a type of grotesque Greek tragedy whose protagonists lacked the nobility heroism bestows upon us.
It was painful to imagine what kind of wounds could reduce a thousand of Petrarch’s Lauras to infantile despondency.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
image: Kozlik; Shutterstock; [link]
Exiling ourselves from ourselves. What better definition of hell is there?
Excerpt form the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
He looked for life in the long, ecstatic nights of our love.
I thought he did not understand that the frenzy of flesh always ends in death; that my body stood between him and heaven.
On the other hand, he argued that my body was his gate to heaven, his branch to eternity.
Ironically, it was the juxtaposing of our thoughts that made love so intense, so rapturous that we could not distinguish anymore between reality and fantasy.
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”
We were standing in the middle of the street.
The wind was blowing, cooling my skin, drying my lips, undoing my hair, unraveling my colored dress, melting away the earth tones of the afternoon air.
I looked at the buildings around us. Instantly they started deteriorating under our very eyes. They were growing older: channels entrenched into their facades, channels left by painful tears on wax faces.
Wet leaves caught in Miguel’s hair; the old laurel wreath of dead heroes.
Miguel stared at me believing that my love would save him.
I stretched my left arm and touched his cracked lips.
“I am the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. I cannot save you. Go away, go to the end of this world, and wait for me there. Between two lives, between two centuries, between two sufferings, I’ll look for you. I’ll find you, and then I’ll heal you. Now, I am just the wounded healer who does not heal anymore. He who touches me dies.”
Tears were falling from his eyes.
Around us mounds of ocre humid sand.
No buildings were left.
“Shared pain bonds acutely. So, Clara, tell me how acutely shared love bonds?”
Miguel turned his luminescent green eyes toward the Basilica. I did not answer. I thought of Jacques and Miriam and the pain that we all shared.
It felt like some cosmic ritualistic initiation in which the protagonists had their hearts taken out every evening, only to be inserted back into their empty chests early in the morning pumping despair and agony instead of blood.
Wasn’t there any salvation?
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.