I Monster
NeveroddoreveN

THE REVIEW

A sleepless night. He rises from a bed that seems always the same to him, while the walls have willingly stretched, and it seems that the objects are enlivened by shadows. He begins to trot around a room that is no longer a place, but a pleasant torture, the Fear, happily styled, and it seems that it wants to challenge him to a game of chess. Fear has no name, but a sound, suffused with ancient patinas, laid on Persian carpets, on musical patterns that quietly ask to jest with them: a call to which he, in a state of semi-delirium, can sweetly surrender, why not, and he appears to stagger drunkenly.

But the Anxiety, the terror of infernal forces that deliberately tear the soul apart brings him back to a more human dimension, he becomes scared and believes he is very weak, without strength, he yields. Something is coming. Voices now coming from places outside that alcove project mind and soul into the most composed of delusions, it is a waking dream wanting to forget itself, full of liquefied clods that only the mind can recompose, but that the mind, imprisoned, causes: blessed, he lets himself be lulled in laziness and despairs completely. A digression between dance halls and illuminated rooms reminds him of the light, so dim as to appear swallowed by the Darkness: the sound is known, the tone familiar, the warning is to rise from the small niche where before he appeared scared, where before he widened his eyes.

Thus, in a conversation just begun, suddenly, without any warning, he discovers the Ecstasy. It is Paradise, with overshadowed tones, not illuminated by the artificial lights that seep through the shutters. He is led there by inertia, not by choice: the saddened melody of a harmonica compels him, he is not forcibly torn away. He remains, but time brings him back to reminiscence, once again, in an old London night club that still echoes with the blues of yesteryear, and it's permissible to lose oneself in it, to follow with head movements the frenetic rhythm of the melody, to reduce oneself to a performer.

Thus the executioner, first in the guise of a scarecrow, then of a cynical tempter, takes the word and throws it into the mouths of many small victims, who, subjugated, invite him to take part in a game that is neither art nor part, it is only restlessness. Children's voices organize themselves into a choir as orderly as it is mad, they sing in tune and subtly and put him on edge; one, two performances, and then he believes, or convinces himself to believe, that he hears a more comforting melody, and if it seems so, it ends up being so, because at that moment, so pervaded by impressions that are reality, every opinion is the truth, and by virtue of his imagination he hopes to think of something other than Terror. So he lets himself be tempted by one sensation and another, manages to move his head and once again scan the depths of his room: semblance of calm.

Another heartbeat, and the end appears. Yet the places remain stretched, the darkness still devours the lights, the voices of the children still resonate in the distance. Minutes of anguish, until the nightmare resumes. With delicate violence, it bursts forth and continues for a while, then finally subsides, leaving in his ears only a faint whirl. He closes his eyes, overcome by sleep, and dreams of the Dawn.