Purgatorial fires

Dear reader,

Do You seem to find Yourself in a sort of eternal purgatory?

Do You find it hard to turn away from the Gates of Darkness and into the Heavenly Glory, regardless of how hard you try?

Do You sometimes come across people and phenomena You suspect of being cloaked demons sent out on some mysterious mission to challenge You, or perhaps agents carrying messages You don’t know how to decode?

Does Your every day life seem more and more allegorical?

And have You perhaps even started to suspect that You are chained to this earthly existence, trapped in a world made out of dark materia created by a malicious god, with the light of truth nothing but a distant memory, a flickering flame in the soul growing weaker and blurrier?

This text was written for You!

There is a turning point when the tram turns the corner as the bikes ring their bells as someone, in the background, yells – at whom? at you? – and the moment you see the car in the periphery, which desperately brakes not to kill you, at exactly the moment it occurs to you that you might, oh wow, die, exactly in that moment something happens to the light on the corner of the house and you get the same impression of the world as you might have if you were a completely indifferent ghost – not at all bitter towards the living, too immaterial to have any feelings at all, but still in general pretty good humoured in the same way rain or air can be good humoured, plucked out of time and out of everything in human affairs that makes things “matter”.

So you see all of this – the angles of the windows and the balconies, people’s angry or happy or often stressed out faces, the lights, the signs, the puddles, the stores, every vehicle on the street that endangers your life, the dog shit, the trash, the cobblestones, the construction workers, the lanterns, the houses in their silent attitudes – for what it is, as if nothing carried any kind of value. Immaterial and plucked out of time you cannot judge it. And you don’t have to judge it. Everything just is, and extremely much so, and if you could really leave the body, like the dead maybe do, and just fly around and indifferently observe the people and what they do for all eternity it would be… it would be…

Almost like a crack, not in the clouds but in what’s above the clouds and inside the clouds and also everywhere beneath them;

The car brakes an inch before it strikes you, the driver curses and you feel really fucking stupid, for being so close to causing an accident, for always walking around with your head in the clouds instead of in the real world.

Then you think about that instead, and forget about what you’ve caught a glimpse of.

Well, there are many things you can do to forget about what you’ve seen and repressed the knowledge of so hard that you’ve almost entirely forgotten it. You can eat thai food, read things on the internet, think about which fellow travellers on public transport you’d like to fuck, which ones you wouldn’t like to fuck, and why. And you can see your friends, diet, masturbate, remember your memories, wash windows, go to the gym, watch TV shows, learn about the history of nutmeg, and if you do enough things perhaps you’ll be tired enough afterwards to fall asleep like a lil piglet between extremely material, real sheets, and not at all have to deal with THAT OTHER THING which tugs at you like a hook in the heart and leaves you neither sleep nor peace, because moods and impressions can chase you all the way into your dreams.

Okay, and what then? Why would we even have the ability to wish that there is more than “this”, if we aren’t then also able to experience that little extra thing? What a condemned existence that would be, arisen out of something cold hearted and cruel. It takes less than that to make you beg for god, any god, to reach down with a really big fork and impale your heart, to let you know what it really means to be. Let’s say that in principle, like in the corny allegory, there are two wolves inside of you, one that dutifully works on keeping the other chained, like a builder building the same wall every single day, and then there’s the other one which, if you heard it’s ecstatic howling, would drive you so crazy that you could never work again or use a telephone in the socially accepted manner. As to which one wins? Dear reader, choose carefully!


Text and image: Zola Gorgon