There are those who have seen the Great God Pan, and there are those who have seen the wet rose dress. All have lost their reason. All have lost all contact with reality, because they have seen the invisible, the unspeakable, the divine. They’ve seen curves, reliefs, pigmentations, you know? They would be ready for anything to lift this wet cloth, but not right away, not now. It is not necessary to remove a robe to grasp what is underneath, to caress it, to desire it, to kiss it, to take it with all hands, with full mouth. In the folds of the wet cloth, I saw my future, and yours. I saw worlds, days and nights, camber, spasms, silences, breathlessness, rales, pauses, fingers, lips, I saw life and I saw death.
There are those who have seen the great death, and there are those who have seen the little death. For all, it is impossible to come back to life. They have reached the edge of the cliff-of-knowledge, and only by jumping off, by giving up everything known can they touch the surface of the river which leads to everything unknowable, everything that is secret about life. They touch the naked body of the woman they love, move their hands slowly across her thighs before feeling her insides with their fingers, write the sound of her moaning on their hearts forever, then enter her. And those who enter the woman they love can never leave. The little death is the greatest death. And the greatest death is the greatest life.
In the Kabbalah, it is said that in order to meet God, one must breathe in a certain way: deeply, with fervor, a discrete but certain intensity. It is the divine breath that flows within us. Wait, look, listen: inspiration makes you return to what you are, expiration transcends you. Imagine my breathing, right now. Am I looking for your inner god? Of your inner fire? Am I trying to extinguish or burn it? I’m there, I crawl under the wet cloth. You barely notice me, but you already feel me. Deep inside. At the very bottom.
M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.
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