— Saikat Nandi
And, this is how the glass was shattered, to fill up the infinite silence. High above the mountains lived Réne, with a woman made up mostly of flesh and blood. There was a secret staircase of time that could lead to the room of innocence in the mountain. However, Réne really did not want to take the path for he had an indelible shadow. He hated the world for it did not know how to make love after years of civilization. He knew how to paint, though. He loved to remember his ancestors, whenever he went to bed with the woman. The strange feeling of having sex with a woman with no name consisted of a large portion inside his alter ego. As he looked down the snow-capped valley, he could see the beast running towards the horizon in the fear of light. It had been long since he used to fit perfectly in the bubble of unknown fantasy.
He could clearly identify the man asking for the way to the road of solace, though only in the middle of a mad dream. It was out of a curiosity that he started to write symbols. To him, he himself invented the art of being in falsehood. Each word consisted of nearly an infinite void that could fill up the entire emptiness around him. At first he used to write on the wall, for he noticed that the sound of carving letters out of the stones resembled the moonlit sonata of making love. But he was reminded lately of the butterfly that remained absent from his paintings. The ignorance waited for him in the garden of perversion to find out the meaning of prayer. So, he decided to write down the poetry on the back of the woman. The stories of the imaginary worlds were, thus, written on lively flesh using a quill and blood. Now, it looks like a flower with rose-red petals. Like the spring that owes its warmth to the winter, the poetry, as it stands, is the illegitimate child of the man infatuated with cold misery.
“But, I still lived”, said Réne, as he was writing the story of the blind painter on the white yet gloomy skin of the angel. The symbols are now visible. He could see them even in the darkest of dawn. As the storm passed over the hill the sky looked like a polished dagger, the dagger of a black magician. He could cut the thread into two indistinguishable pieces.
Yet, they remained undivided. The wind that flows from north carries the smell of burnt woods. The forking of moments cannot be stopped unless the ship sets sail. The sun was not seen through the shadow. The dead needs flowers because one cannot escape the near absence of his identity. The alphabets make up the words. The words make up the phrases. The phrases are meaningless, too. Every night he was reminded of the passion for void as he made love with the woman. He could feel the altar inside her as he saw the flock of words, flying in the dark over the red meadows. It takes a thousand suns to create the desert. The mirage was his inheritance of the first moon. He was obliged to create her from the wings of time.
It occurred to Réne that he needed to survive amongst the beauty of unreality he created on his own. At first it seemed impossible to live in a world full of unknown creatures. But, there was the spear to hunt down the uncertain. He needed, however, the fire, to burn its existence into gray ashes of nothingness. It was only a moment of truth and beauty. He had a pair of hands to create those forms. The blood was still flowing through the veins. It stopped after a while. He dragged the body through the baize of green grass and fresh yet untimely air. In the evening, the corpse was burning endlessly in the golden fire, as if there was no beginning to it. Nobody knew where he came from.
Now, he found the insensate odes he created for her pulchritude, in the wild flame of falling stars. Prometheus stole fire from the palace of Zeus to give it to the mankind. Nevertheless, it took away the immortality of the man, the woman and their shadows, in the end. Réne, visibly perplexed as he looked back into the mirror, threw the stone instinctively to the silent glass. There was no one either.