Transition

2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43

Transition.

The underground passage envelops the bodies piercing it with a soft veil of meaninglessness. The transition is the softest and most smooth-flowing place in the center of the city, here you can flow into a state of melting completely imperceptible to yourself. I melt along with the dust on the ceiling, fuse into a single conglomerate of unreliable connections that disturb the people who see them, fly along with the hot, suffocating air from the subway, like a bee carrying nectar along a strictly specified route. The aura of everyday life combined with intriguing softness, these smooth play of light from yellowed lamps, everything is filled with unhurried mossy viscosity, felt, perhaps subjectively, but no less believable. In this smoothness lives my spirit of unfreedom, buried in the underground cave, my personal dragon, breathing on me the fumes of yesterday's hard drinking, hidden in today's bustle, my faithful and obedient overseer, so fussy and bright, hurrying on unimportant matters, angry, sleepy and hungry …

And over and over again passing through this noise, rows of flowers and the hubbub of transcendentally insensitive people, I feel this heavy breathing, in every flap of the wing of every pigeon, in every look of the homeless near the wall, this languid hopeless hellish softness of the air, unbearable in its obsessive complexity. Pass and forget or leave and not notice? At this moment, the urge to run out of here, to climb the stairs and fly over the dead asphalt of the streets, to protect myself, a vulnerable, tired morning lover of life in secret, grows, he is too dangerous for my enchanting disappointments. I will not give them to anyone.

Maybe this is purgatory, I don’t know, maybe before descending into the underground hell, the guards selling buns and coffee, flowers and bags, all that is needed there, apparently these are gifts to Lucifer so that he would let you go next time, whom may not be. And it’s so hard to be here, so trivially disgusting and prophetically wretched, the asphalt tangled between our legs, wrinkled, all in the cuts of time, as if the air carved in it notes about the old days. Alarming to me in this feeling of impending madness of happiness, it badly affects my mood. Burn, here you need to burn everything, first of all the air. The length of the transition is ideal in terms of feelings, my anger from the beginning of the path to the end has time to blossom, get stronger and … that's it, I have already left, perfect, just a grandmaster's move, bravo, very invigorating.

The metaphor of the passage of the birth canal suggests itself. Intricate wiggling narrow passages, dark, this sugary scent of flowers (as if they were bought and taken to the hospital here), and this unforgettable feeling of dying fear mixed with the feeling of the grandioseness of going “into the light”. And this viscous air, it sticks to me, I literally carry it on myself to the surface, and there in the wind it disappears, it is washed off from me by the stream of raging hated reality. And then only confusion and dissatisfaction. Enter my wounds as I enter the passage, process them, as I make sacrifices to the gods of the dungeon, pray for my soul, imagine it whole and pure, as I bow in respect and stretch out my hands to the turnstile, get to know me as I go deeper along the escalator to the first circle of hell. I am here and I am here again, I walk back and forth, breathe in and out with a cry, my lungs shrink, my eyes want to close, my legs carry me to the exit, faster, faster, faster, have time to be born again today, do it, otherwise what's the point ?