F*ck Barbed Wire

We walk through the shadows encircled with barbed wire. We see the cameras all around us. We look--alert, yet not alarmed--in order to penetrate the realms behind surfaces. Find the world beneath. Different world. Our walk is insecure. Our muscles shiver. Our mouths are dry. We no longer have a clear idea of what kind of look at the realities will and which will not be tolerated. We are scared. We hear languages that we don’t understand. See deceitful mirror images. Hear deceptive stories. Even when told in languages  whose syntax we know, whose morphology we also know, phonetics and semantics alike, but whose phonology is not entirely within the grasp of our linguistic potentials.

Our bodies are exhausted. We’ve been running for such a long time. We are hungry and no food seems to be in sight. The landscape is barren. No berries to pick up, no wellspring to water one’s mouth. No clearing in the desertlike country. Hilly formations are turning into buildings as one’s dessert-induced blindness is fading away, as the images are becoming not what they are not. As the dry, cracked, wounded paths and thirsty earth  are being irrigated and sending the liquid supply to the surrounding. To the remote parts of the landscape. Other scenery.

Where the walk might still be troubled. Where the step might still be heavy. Where the warmth of sunshine cannot be felt as it spreads and is spilling over the tortured bodies. Crawling through the desert, mouth smeared with sand, mistakenly attempted to be taken instead of water during those long, monstrous hallucinatory hours.

Hours flow. So does water. So do thoughts. Thoughts about dryness, thoughts about how mind works when no liquid is available. How the self-mobilizing  generator of stashed fuel is being reinvigorated as it is propagating energy nutrients. How it triggers the sources invisible from the surface, perhaps previously unknown, but found and set in motion: quiet uprising of the thought. The thought about the desert, the thought about the thirst, the thought about hunger, the thought about all the ideas that can be gotten from the stories told in languages whose syntax one knows, whose morphology one knows, phonetics and semantics alike, but whose phonology is not only out of the grasp of one’s linguistic potentials, but constitutes a very clearly defined territory for which one’s storytelling detector shows no inclination whatsoever.

TherefoYr, barbed wire: Hello! Who can tell barbed wire from spaghetti?  Who can tell the difference between sand and dust? Who can make a distinction between water and wine? Who can tell the register in which the story is told and, by so doing, identify the subtonic message? Who can disclose the fact that some stories, despite being very quiet, know no subtonic hi-fi? Who can say that the fact that some are loud doesn’t speak about the vitality slightly different from what passes for fuel enabling them? Who can generate gentleness of the breeze that will sooth the afflicted, dry skin. Who can write the story in the language understandable to the self-mobilizing generator of the fuel and the flow.