The nightmare of the rocks
She drags herself on a stretch of black sharp rocks. Her feet are wet with blood and salty tears which suggest her most depraved sorrows and her most bitter failures. She wonders in the dark desert, made darker by the black sky dotted with ghosts similar to stars. She screams with her mouth shut and her mistakes shine in the dark like stars shading light on the path. The truth is subtle and leaves space to the mush of blood and tears that are now completely covering her feet. Tonight even the past loses its consistency and fades away in the sky.
She doesn’t give up. She grinds her teeth like a beast, just like when she was a child and she had no control over her mood swings, the tablets and her disturbed sleep. Her insomnia used to keep her awake, with her eyes wide open waiting for the Bogeyman, for the nocturnal epilepsy and for her dead mum. Her dead mum. She remembers that feeling, the tachycardia, the panic attacks and she is invaded by the anxiety of the grief.
She sees the mountain that, from far away, marks the shadow of the existence on that stretch of clouded dark rocks. Its call is gloomy and thrilling and it holds her sobs. It takes her back on the track with a warrant: we are not here to feel sorry for ourselves and lie on the floor, surrounded by the ephemeral tribulations of the passing time.
She resumes the walk, she now knows the interior rhythm of her vocation by heart, the shivers of her cuts don’t prevent her from advancing solemnly towards what she sees and feels. The screams of the damned ones dance in the heavens but they are only weak moths and muffled noises.
This is the beginning of the climb, steep and challenging like her ailments. She is hungry and thirsty, she is hot and deathly cold, she is tired and sleepy. She wants to fall asleep and not to wake up again. She wants to live forever in a dream of light: just in a white room.
North and South don’t exist in her rise. The only thing she follows is the path of suffering. She reads this on an ebony sign: the path of suffering. Does she see it? Or maybe she is slowly waking up, searching for handholds of real life, something like the sudden pain that she now feels in her stomach.
She has now passed the last hairpin bend before the peak. But the peak doesn’t exist: there is not peak to reach.
The present is water: a stagnant stretch of volcanic water that she can hear opening. Green and calm, like the silence at the end of the show.
Not too far from her crumbly presence, something is boiling over. The body of a woman appears on the surface of the water: it’s her, the relic. Very slowly her light dress comes off, like death skin and she is now naked. Her following steps are slow flutters of her spirit, the end of her palpitations.
She immerses herself fully in the bubbling pond, stumbling on her fears, awkwardly impeded by the pain in her torn apart fingertips. She touches that freezing case and brings it close to her body. She hugs it and finally stops bleeding from her eyelashes. Concentric circles expand in the river of jade, sealing the most intimate union.
Hanging from that sinking raft, she allows the water to drag her to the bottom and she dies, finally lying on the error: the bottom of dark sharp rocks from which nobody can return.