(6) BLack Star

(6) Black Star.

I felt like one of those sketches or drawings from Renaissance anatomy manuscripts. These famous illustrations show a human body stripped of its skin, walking nonchalantly along a country path, with a small town in the background or near the entrance of a house, returning home as if nothing was… Anyways...

I don't have the luxury of being as nonchalant and easy blending as my Renaissance counterparts.

I am a very unusual and shocking sight when I walk outside to all who see me.

Back home, closing the door behind me, my steps carry me down the hallway on a long journey that continues wherever I go and whatever I do in my small room.

It's no longer a question of distance, but of perseverance in the face of persistent suffering. There's no doubt about my destination. It's accelerating now that the final harbor of death looms so close I can see it from my window. Death is practically capable of reeling me in, like a dead fish on a hook.

I will be dead when I meet death. He will not see me suffer. He will not giggle while I kick and scream. No! I will be limp, dead and unconscious. He will just swallow me up. anyways, dead or alive. But he will be disappointed.

The large open wound that runs the legth of my chest is a constant reminder of what is going on.

It's bleeding again. I understand that bleeding to death can be very slow. If only it hurt less!

But To be honest, so much carving and opening up of the body, to this extent, can't leave the nerves indifferent.

I was ambushed one afternoon. I was supposed to get my heart ripped out and be left for dead.

Of the four masked assailants, one was tasked with the stabbing and breaking up the rib cage.

Seeing the heart free enough to haul out, the person was to bend down, grab my heart, yank it out and hold it triumphantly in the air, screaming frantically under a warm blood aspersion.

Fortunately in a way for me, the figure was not strong enough to carry out the plan. I guess he had never poked a spear or thrust swords. It's mostly thanks to the special leather and wool layers added to my undergarments.

The only result was having two others join in the frantic attempt to slice open my chest. They succeeded finally in injuring me mortally and ran off.

A huge wound was cut the length of my chest. The agony left me drifting in spirit above the scene, though I could very well feel my own warm pool of blood.

Not being able to get past the ribs, they left a frayed and chaotic crator showing portions of my heart, lungs and ribs. The skin is lacerated.

There are many left over severed blood vessels of different lengths that litter the edge and dangle down with frayed and ripped skin.

What I hate the most are the horrible red blood clots the size of small furry caterpillars. They itch and gross me out.

Even worse are the awful and yucky brownish crumbs of scab forming necrosis.

My heart, lungs, and ribs are visible to varying degrees, with all bits of frayed skin, blood vessels, half-dried brownish scabs. Sometimes I get burning patches of fizzy liquid that stink.

It's a horrible wound to behold, one that was incised hastily, with hatred and vengeance, in the crudest way, with the aim of killing as violently as possible. I survived without anesthesia or the medical assistance of a justified procedure.

Having put you in context gently, I can now come to the real reason of this confession.

I had no idea it would come to this, not even my ambush and attempted murder. But there is something even more shocking I discovered! We don't often think about this aspect of wounds. I certainly didn't.

I knew they were painful and could get infected. We all know that. But here's what I didn't know, here's how it works:

these bastards have specific and individualized needs on purpose just to piss you off!

They are in reality aware of you! They are capricious, merciless, and cruel. They need to be pampered and cared for until they decide to heal and disappear! Hateful bastards!

If you don't treat your wounds and do what they want whenever they want, you will die. They will kill you. By making you suffer. They have the upper hand. Everyone will think you died of an infection.

Doctors will have the proof! What they don't know is how intentionally the infection was triggered by a wound. It's what they existe for. They pull the strings of your life.

I think this new aspect of the wound patient interaction would have been a smash hit of existential destiny, in the style of ancient Greek dramas, where the cruel consequences suffered by the characters sent a clear message, still valid today:

We don't control these things. Something else does, probably just for laughs. We're not warned in advance. The tragedy isn't in their taking place . It's in the failure to be a hero like Odysseus.

In those days, the gods cheated against each other. Different outcomes were possible, but never a nice one you could choose. Even if our odds of survival were all faked in advance, disproportionately to our disadvantage, the creators have a clear conscience.

This is not cheating. At long as we have our little futile attempt doomed to failure, we don't know better, think the lord did his best and we can't challenge the gods.

I am left having to cater to the demands of my gaping chest opening. I have to rip all my t-shirts and sweaters in front. My wound wants to breathe and bleed more comfortably.

Believe me! you don't want to piss it off!

You'll see, if you do, even without knowing it, wounds hold a grudge and know how to trigger an urgent and fatal infection in all sorts of ways!

Despite that, people look at me with anger, intolerance, and disgust.even if it's by chance that their eyes fall on me. Whether intentionally or not, this forces anyone who sees me to realize how shocking my condition is, and it instantly causes jolts of anxiety and stress throughout their body.

Sort of like when we are rudely or unexpectedly surprised.

It is quite common to feel anger and irritation.

well my condition arouses antipathy and hostile attention and is a magnet of contempt and violent tendencies.

The reason is because people feel guilty when seeing someone like me. They don't know or understand why. That's enough for anyone to develop the murder hormone very quickly.

The influence of anger and exasperation are the greatest enhancers.

It is as if something or someone does not die in the expected and socially accepted manner, even a mild mannered Pacific person can suddenly say,

-"We have no choice, we have to kill it or it'll suffer! "

So they grab a club, anything at all and start pounding and bashing to a pulp the head of the animal (sometimes person) right in front of the children. It is considered a valuable lesson in life to not hold existence as an overated luxury.

How they can find sense in nonsense like that is beyond me.

Seen like that, it's not ambulances we need! Why waste so much time and prolounge suffering? I should start a head bashing service you can reserve in advance, in case you unexpectedly wind up in a serious medical emergency.

I would advertise,

"Get your head bashed in before it's too late!"

" Suffer quickly only once instead of intensely unbearable until you die "

"We won't lecture or guilt trip you. We listen and deliver what you ask for"

I personally have more chances of knitting a gold wound, like in the fairy tale. If I could knit a golden something out of my flesh, I would be a golden gun, I sure would. But before shooting myself, I would aim it at the wound, smile, grin and break out in maniac laughter as I shoot them all the bullets!

In any case, the mere fact that you are dying will be held against you. It will be considered a terrible inconvenience and curse you contracted in unholy illegal ways.

This will give the crowd what they need.

Believe me, you will suffer as an unwanted nuisance, disturbance and a criminal. No matter how you plead and scream, they are immune to that.

Have you ever seen anyone who doesn't try desperately not to get tortured by a mob? Why shouldn't you? We are all the same for them. Kicking and screaming is the normal sounds the guilty always make. These are normal parts of life. They make the agony last as long as it can, before death breaks the party.

It's simply a deeply ingrained survival response that provokes the violent need in them to finish you off quickly, to end your suffering so that they themselves can escape unconscious guilt and anxiety.

This hormone is an excellent pheromone communicator. Collective action is a common reaction among pack animals. This instinctive mob killing is ignored or allowed, with no intervention from authorities to stop it.

It's natural. It was a gift from the gods. It's supposed over time to have benefits similar to feng shui or acupuncture. Entire families will celebrate the brutal folk crushing of evil and the purity of god bestowed on the daring.

Get rid of the horror and we will have something to thank god after. That is the unconscious meaning behind all the Godzillas, monsters and invaders. Kill or get killed.

This means people are guaranteed to give in unscrupulously to any violent impulse.

This is what happened to Frankenstein. It will happen to you even in this day, if you're not careful enough.

I'd rather switch roles with Amfortas, in Wagner's Parsifal. Even though the Grail Mass celebrations kept his father alive, it also kept his wound alive and throbbing with pain. It would not heal.

Listen man, I would change spot with him anyday! And he was suffering the wound of christ?

He suffered an ordinary cut on the side?

That's it? I wonder if they had tried and failed to kill Jesus the same way my killers attempted, would he be mounted on a crucifix with a hideous wound like me? One thing's for sure, the day a lamp comes out, of Jesus sitting on an electric chair, when you swith it on, the eyes flicker with the message

" Jesus loves you...tilt...crackle...Jesus loves you...

The person who markets that will be a millionaire.

There is one last observation I want to share with you. This also came as a big surprise to me!

It's the animal kingdom ! They were also aware of my condition!

The most loyal, devoted, and affectionate creatures in the world are flies. They will follow you everywhere and even die trying if necessary. They will never abandon you.

They are maternal. They love to land on you and tickle you with their tiny black legs. If you observe them closely, you will notice that they look back at you lovingly, rubbing their hands together and cocking their head, waiting for you to notice.

When you do, they'll start kissing you over and over again with a big long smootcher they have stticking out of their mouth .

Parasites, vermin, lice, rats, and small white worms are next on my loyal friends list. They go further. Not to abandon you, they will settle inside you and form a life system within you, from you.

It's a perfect and fair teamwork!

There was also a small gathering of vultures outside, circling slowly in the sky above me. As happy as they were to feed on my bones, I knew they were most hungry for my softer bowels.

Loneliness is being alone and suffering intensely every second. It goes on and on, never stopping, not even to eat, not even to sleep.

My only company was parasitic, but loyal. Flies are reliable. They don't really discriminate, nor do tiny white worms. But social scavengers are a case apart.

They know how to cling to our fading lives like a tapeworm in our intestines. The only unwanted species I encountered were such social parasites.

On the outside, they look like normal people, but imagine a giant crab lice the size of a cow or a magnificent tick just as large. These horrible creatures have the same needs as my faithful parasites and friends, but not for the same reasons, nor with the same methods

.

I guess I was understanding dying to death.

Scavengers are utterly ruthless, indifferent, and selfish. I understand what death is. If only the body didn't want to live so much, it would be over sooner.

The only place it seemed to keep bringing me back to was right where it began...

Sometimes I think my time has come...

My whole body is galvanized by paralyzing bursts of pain. Like a sudden eruption, blood gushes from my wound, spraying all over my face, body, and everything around me.

I think I'm even better than a skunk, at least. If I ever accidentally gush all over you, it won't stink as much.

But It hurts when it happens. Unimaginable and unbearable pain! My cheeks twist into screams as if I were constipated, except it's much worse.

It can be described as your body suddenly contracting in preparation for you suddenly going to have to deliver a deformed calf by giving birth partially through the bladder and colon.

Nothing surprising happens, I never had this miracle happen. Each time however, it adds a prolapses that reach the size of a pear to the collection of them hanging from my rear. I like to pretend they are grenades!

Each time, I remind myself that anything experiencing this is better off dead before it happens again!

These pathological assaults are not enough to kill me instantly and my body is able to withstand it, so it seems paradoxical that it is rather the medicine I am taking and which has been prescribed to me that kills me the fastest.

It is not supposed to have a curative effect on the wound itself, it is a self-prescribed way of distracting oneself from the agony, if possible. There is nothing to do but put all the pieces back in place as best as possible and buckle up for the next deadly birth attempt torment.

In retrospect, I find that the short poem "Blackstar", of which only a few fragments remain, sometimes deeply resonates with what I feel. This poem was addressed to those who have been and still are close to the haven of death. Here are some excerpts:

a "The black star's shimmer dimmers to intimicy the unforgettable rustling sorrow of loss"

" b "Life's expectations are pinched excruciating and reduced to a racing flow of blood.

" c "...A blur through tears bleeding from deep wrought cuts and hatreds.

" d " Life has disillusions and to be left behind to warm a vigor by the burning suffering, sparks of pain and despair rising in the night.

#set your gaze on a black flame in isolation from those staring through blood red pools."

"e " The black star dances to the earth's rhythm: a dullened beat."

" f " Fire burns the wood to ashes, dust settles on the edge of the eclipse."

Return from your death, " Get killed while alive, and leave when death arrives"

"G" "Live to die." Die to live " We were born to die.