Words of The Infected One ••• [from the Chronicles of Infection, part t+1]

A lot of people try to tell you what to do with your life and they don’t even have their own life in order. That’s funny to me. – Lebron James

If you know me, you know me as the Infected One.

It seems now, after a while of contemplation and exterior events, that I have come to a new issue. Perhaps not an issue, just a matter: to discover what is at the bottom of the well. Which well? Why, solitude.

It seems that perhaps, in the end, all we truely want to be, is to be away from it all. With somebody else in the first instance. Alone together. But then, as we see being-away more clearly for what it is, for what it means, I suppose truly, actually, deeply away from it all. Inside myself.


All one.


It is an open question if this final solitude is a matter of being  an eremite or of just being dead. I prefer, for now, to imagine it as the former. Death is the most pointless shit of it all. Instead, to rest in a state of simple being. Which seems Zen-like. At the bottom of the well of solitude, yes, no, I might find something like Zen: a bucket without water, emptiness, Themba. Who is me and is certainly not me, a splicing that makes due with imagination.

Earlier, the well floweth over with creativity and even egoistic, athletic activity but that does not prevent it from eventually running dry. Then I can approach it and stare down it and see whatever it is that is to be seen, down there: an empty bucket or the white eyes of a black face.


CODA: Wheezy says he is from Mars, that he is not a human being. But I, to be honest, am not even here.

About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
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