The Things of the Domain of Shadows: The Spirit of the Breath

wolf breathing

“Enough of this crying of the same story”- murmured the evil accent as it had its right to be heard on the boy’s head, now, as written earlier, a young man without an age since time is not premeditated with years, minutes or even seconds but with one’s acts; it is what will remain, the true bones in the grave of a spiritual body, that which the Greeks have called Φήμη, a remembrance not of the dead but of those living acts, immortal in their own way, as they find a place in the assortment of people’s discourse, for the times and times to come, in the daedalic manner that only language has the power to shape structures never to be seen. And this voiced “Enough” was not a bearing towards another act, for the boy was already in his own orientation, an act in itself, a past without an ending until the actor, he who is acting and is found within the act, regains its final breath, just like the first one with which he accompanied its caliginous singing with yet another snivel: “How painful is to breathe,” he was to wonder for years, this small simple function of a body that is actually not bodily because one is never engaged through life in the midst of the flesh alone- the god of the flesh is always won by language- it is their mixture we call life, let aside the subject and the question of how to elaborate the breathing so as to be in the direction of existence. “Enough,” he heard it again because that he, she or it, unknown is the gender of the other’s voice, has learned to be critical from the derivatives of that wisdom that once has been a woman without a cadaver and habituated the instrumentalities above the radiance of the stars, and is not sympathetic to the magical devotional time of this meticulous verve that the young man has elected as an axiom of a being, this sort of breath that only a free man could have approached, in this mode, the manner passing within and from the domains of death and life and senses the jokes of existences pitifully revealing the ignorance of the possibility, no, not of death, but of a life, an actual life where inhalations have their own elements of distance and geographical emoluments- its breathes the man itself in the instance.

 

And the nightmare of the uncontaminated evil, was long gone, with a few spiced articulations intoning their sinful way into his being with which he had to confront that which does not accept love but loves to destroy- this ancient prescription for creation of every sadistic denomination under an oath to murder the father because one of those professional life takers is not able to walk, not as the young man, on the top of roofs and trees without been noticed by those who do not sleep at night for they have wasted their day; at those moments when he would have done this casual stroll to meditate his spirit and the inhalation calling him to deliver the message to the voice of the world, with a voluminous melancholy for the missing kind gaze of the fairy who had forgot him, he could hear them breathing profoundly: and it is he, in all actuality, that could have said “Enough” to them- “Your bad smell fills the clean oxygenised dimness by which I renew my vowels so to keep a distance from that name which is of God”- he could have been frustrated like them but he has discovered the spirit of the breath with the assistance of the fairy who has returned just before he was able to settle on the disposition of her voice and gaze, that one fairy, one of the two, she who knows how to whisper to the trees and to those who can borrow their breath even if they are destined to regenerate it once again, again through that terrible pain not understood by eyes trapped by masks of beauty and never witnessed by the dead corpses walking in the streets of civilisation, one dead corpse leading another in the procedure of one mirror glazing into another: it has been a great night, that, that particular evening, as the fairy for the very first time made him a breath himself so to enter the insurmountable of the domain of shadows: searching and searching- “What are you searching for young man?” And the voiced prayer to him, this time was, “It is you who has to search for me because you have lost me and hence I am doomed to hold the eyeball of the world.”