Art by Hiruni Kumari
I’ve been knocked off my feet by the hideous deception of the self. I told the Idiot I was ignorant enough for eternal bliss and salvation, I told the insufferable Prostitute I heard the rhythmic banging of metal against ancient bones from the city graveyard, I told the Tearful Mime pity was the only remedy to unbearable loneliness, I told the Unfashionable Alter Ego I had once been free and that I had been taken away by bitter numbness, I told the laughable Artist creation would fulfill my reckless hunger, I told the Criminally Insane my spectre would forever haunt the decaying heart of an unfeeling bitch.
I will never be fit for death; my devotion to minor atrocities will send me to hell. There is much to fear--all angels appear as grossly indecent demons in my frequent nightmares. I shall plunge my sword of lies deep into the quivering bowels of Beauty, Strength, and Morality.
I built an entire kingdom--decorated with solid gold more glorious than an Inca city, with rivers flowing with the rotten blood of unwanted men and guarded by the sins of my abandoned past. There, engulfed by the blue and indigo streaked sky, were golden birds with eyes redder than the drunken men on October streets. I had created countless gods with empty promises, and they have given my people miraculous gifts of despair and indecency. I was gluttonous for pain and heartbreaks, I prayed for heavy floods in hope of cleansing my sin of blatant mediocrity. I wished to become the conductor of a freak show, the cynical prison guard of an all women’s jail, the pagan that was burned to death on a stake by inquisitors. In conclusion, I no longer wanted to be trapped in this frail body of an inferior being with a broad skull and ridiculous limbs, destined to be looked down upon.
The burn of exotic alcohol flowing down my esophagus was not enough to chase away the coward in me. I found other ways to expel him:
Visions of balloon factories rising from the horizon on a humid summer night,
Birds with human eyes stare at me from my ceiling in the darkness,
Horse-pulled chariots running me over during battle leave hideous scars on my skin.
Hallucinations have given me false hope and endless inspirations.
This is good enough to make my intestines implode and to make my bed swallow me whole!
I began to fabricate night and day. I said let there be light and there was nothing but hellish darkness. I created my own dystopia where I was finally able to rest my bones. There I wrote idiotic verses and showed off my deformities, I studied alchemy of the word with hateful Gauls and brewed potions stronger than the lust of mortal lovers.
I went on a journey through Berlioz’s symphony: there I heard the whimpers of impassive cellos, saw my march to the scaffold—beheaded for love as the drums cheered me on and waited for the final BANG, as my head rolled off the guillotine. My executioners labored, covered in sweat, for my long-awaited release. Evil crowds rejoiced in a shower of personal heroism and my stale blood.
Then I descended into hell where there was at least some hope. I was finally allowed to suffer. In a mocking voice, she sings; my beloved transforms into an indifferent witch and frantically shuffles her crooked feet during the sabbath, which leaves a trail of charred flesh around my throne. Heavy footsteps and the mystic sound of organs drive me insane as I watch my eventual rebirth as a hyena.
And in that way, I fulfilled my prophecy.