A Question to Digest
Prose Poetry …
While the final question arises and anything but that, as already is screaming from the tops of the highest mountains and spitting from the lowest depths, a rather critical condition is slowly crawling along the flooded paths of a scattered world. And there are so many of them, who, due to prepotent racing only raise dry dust, so much that it is no longer possible to see which birds are flying in such silent synchronicity towards the canopy of luxuriant trees - these colorful immortal forests. So much undigested debris has already rolled into roadside ditches, that our ears, mouths and eyes will begin to mutate and the hardened skin, coated with all this filth, crammed into the cheapest tubes and tempting boxes of heartless flakes. And so, if all the shelves get emptied, we will crawl there with our fingers, licking them dry in our manic craving, and if we still won’t hear any answers, we will call upon those who are looking for a God with their microscopes and telescopes somewhere outside, or those who painted his image on the roadside gleaming frescoes and have forgotten, or do not even know, that he is somewhere in between, between the left and the right extreme, that he is there, at the tip of the grassy weed, between the swinging flight of a butterfly, somewhere under a lonely tree, where the sun’s rays bounce off the deciduous trees to the evergreen branches of the conifers, then split in half and get lost in the damp soil, purified by the morning rain that flooded all the ditches and all those ideologies of human madness, which are like an abyss of megalomania, wrapped in the emptiness of promises. They are empty in the images of false press from which the ink flows and they drink it like the most thirsty leeches. Now in the city only a circus lights are glowing and those that only darken the blind streets. And where the cats with night vision should gather, instead they’re in chains, so a dogs of rabies can freely wagging their tongues on the sidewalk.
After all, it is necessary to at least understand, if not bite into this fact without hesitation, that from a bird’s perspective it is most evident where the hidden paths of the forest lead and all the connections, deviating from the truth. We can see every step that transcends man’s free choice of morality and morality of the nature in which a reflection of the self is found - which is it itself, before it was assigned with any forms, which of course might also get distorted, playing a role of self-blindness - they’re playing a game of separation, disconnection, unrecognizability, which consequently takes place in the visual field - the outer part of the matter and in the everyday hustle of life. And just as natural cycles dictates, so do the cycles of the human interior, in its non-physical - invisible activity, which leaves only traces and stains in its nonlinearity and which exhibit it onto the surface like a drops in a dance of chaos. It is true that they are stubborn, it is true that they change colors on their epidermis, so that it is not even known what their origin could be. And they are so old that they can’t even be recognized by their taste, let alone their smell.
So where does the question hide? What is the question anyway? What is supposed to be important? What is missing? What’s an illusion? Where does it light up and when does it appear?
What happens to the insect in the last stage of development, after it becomes an imago?
What is created by the synthesis of a desired elements? What would happen if all the dams collapsed and what if all the ballast fell off?
The question is… what would happen then!?
Author: Luka Višnikar