Death and the maidens

Filth.
Loathsome, abject, despicable filth.
Hatred and Desire merge into one; at the apex of Desire emerges the unfulfillability of the desire, and Hatred ensues. I have been on the verge of death again, the death of my self. I felt void last night: it was everything I had wanted to feel the night before, but when it came, it brought the filth.

It is a battle of boundaries. The fusion of everythingness and nothingness again, but this time anti-sublime. The collision of me and the other. Close to the implosion of my desires, I walk on the battlefield, where the canons echo around me while inside and outside each attempt to destroy the other. My body is scarred; the scars are remnants of a previous battle where no winner was declared. A ceasefire was called, but the violence has begun again. No bloodshed yet...no shots will be fired while Hatred and Desire remain externally directed. But the point when they retract and turn in on themselves will see me walk into no-man's land, at the centre of the gunfire, which I will no longer be able to hear.

The inside and the outside collide brutally. My scars are symbols of the points where the inside has broken free, and they have become parts of my border with the world. They represent the collapse of boundaries which long to be transgressed again and again. I am not the only scarred body in my life: there are other scars whose stories I want to learn, and which I want to kiss better. The mouth too is a checkpoint, a bridge, between the realms of inside and out: can it heal the other border, the open border of the scars?

There was temporary relief in Annie's melisma of 'bliss'. It was a carefully placed melisma, timed and pitched deliberately, no loss of control. But it became the very jouissance that it articulated, and I fell once more into music, saved by one maiden as I am crushed by another. I will take this as my prescription. That voice - that moment of only voice - is another transgression of boundaries. The voice breaks free of the body which produces it, roams, and launches itself into the ears and soul of the listener. It is not the mouth that heals, not the borderline...but the voice that it projects, the transgressor of borderlines. Alterity risks falsehood; distinctions on the basis of Otherness are not worth much to me at this time, as I sense little value in the borders on which they are founded. Thresholds are a source of great danger to me, and I find myself constantly falling into the black spaces between what they try to keep apart. Some of these spaces are not so black, but as long as the value of boundaries is upheld, the experience of falling in between them will frequently be a dark one for me.