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He moved closer to the edge of the sheet. His body was suddenly drawn to the void. With nothing else to write, his abyss was suddenly alluring, captivating, familiar. Since he was young he had heard stories of suicides and adventurers who jumped from the same point, seeking immortality or death, and not infrequently both.
In the ordinary world, suicide and immortality are almost always mutually exclusive, but in the art world the story is different. You can ask Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin, Mark Rothko and Vincent Van Gogh, or Emilio Salgari and Virginia Woolf.
Paper is a silent killer, and even vile. It allows us to pour into it everything we carry inside, everything we are, were, or dream we will be, and when we are empty of letters, silences, signs that express something, it turns its back on us and despises us. He smears the immensity of his whiteness to our face, and it slowly shrinks every day, bringing us closer and closer to his shores.
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This is how he introduces us little by little to the void, that black hole that they say leads to other dimensions, to other universes, to that dark sea, according to some because nothing inhabits it, according to others because everything and the world live there, and its too much temptation for those who, after emptying themselves, are as full of nothing as the paper that contains them.
He moved to the edge of the sheet and let his fingertips float in the void. He let his fingers play with the air, flirt with the suspended space, let them feel the attraction of the force of gravity that invited them down from below. Then he sat down on the bank and began to move his legs as if he were splashing with water passing under a bridge. At times he thought he saw in the dark the reflection of his face smiling at him, and fear lowered his guard in surprise.
He stood up and began to walk around in a circle, trying to justify the decision he had already made without knowing it. He thought about the risks and the possibilities. The nothing, in which he was already, or eternity, or at least the adventure of the unknown, the opportunity to kill boredom and intoxicate himself with new alternatives, explore new paths.
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He approached the shore again, lay down on the ground, crossed his arms over his chest, and placed one of his feet on the other, like Christ on the cross, making himself a coffin, being the recipient and content until the last moment of his life.
He closed his eyes, and without false drama, he simply turned on himself until he reached the end of the page and became part of the void, slowly sinking like an exclamation mark into the primordial darkness, into the miasma from which we all come and to which we all go, slowly and inexorably.
The moment was pregnant with burial at that moment, and several writing pens began to feel the first contractions. Soon after, several ellipses were born, and paragraphs began to be written. A new immortality was born out of death, and the paper expanded again to accommodate the words. A new cycle had begun.
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©bonzopoe, 2023.
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