Death
Vivus!

Infernal clangor, assault and storm, a tachycardia riddles the soul. Locked in a cage of steel and plastic, propelled at high speed over asphalt, I scan a yellowish horizon and turn the volume knob to the right. Ferocity builds up walls around me, it envelops me. Clangors that seem infernal, a crucible that my heart—forgiving all else—does not believe it can endure. A pain, like a premonition of death by water, needles flogging the lungs, from within. Without oxygen, I wander erratically in search of salvation, I feel faint, I know I cannot withstand the assault. A few seconds of enlightenment and the limbs surrender, prostrating themselves before the beast devouring the air around.

Yet, there was a time when this consoled me. An atrocious joy, a masochistic pleasure that could not have been more pressing and sincere. When the oxygen of life, that life which is normal for others, burns in your lungs like tongues of hell, this storm of sharp splinters comes as a cleansing salvation. It is life that has made all this necessary. It is life that demands an artful violence to exorcise the real brutality, that of every day, the tears that are the estuary of human pain. A music that screeches with imprecations, voices that erupt with sorcery. All this is not gratuitous, it is not an aesthetic digression. It is the tree grown abnormally from roots of juvenile suffering, fibers of malaise that have thickened to construct an impenetrable and stinging fortress.

A piercing cry raises walls around, fortifies and crystallizes our hearts in that desperate twist. Everyone has their own; there is no need to delve into the merits. Fragile, traumatized, frightened souls find consolation, an inexplicable sweetness in the paroxysmal asperities of this maximalist magma. An assault that tempers and wounds the skin, strangling and strengthening the thought, the ability to endure and understand, an effort that is like exploring incandescent abysses, in an apnea without respite.

I needed all this because I wasn't happy. Infernal symphonies like honey for a heart strangled by tentacles of thorns. Only now, that the poison has drained from the limbs, can I truly understand the form, monstrous and dazzling in its beauty, of all this clattering. Now I see it, because I no longer need it.