Chagal looked out of the window in my room at the Old Hospital. “Beautiful isn’t it! We’ve done it, succeeded in becoming what we wanted to become. Its nice to see it all from here – you don’t get to see the only ugly thing in sight because you are in its belly, peeping out of its vestigial belly button. ”
The hospitals were razed after our bodies had been completely ‘immunized’ (with the exception of this Old Hospital, which accommodated a minimum of our collective sentiment) . The earth was ours; we had rebuilt its eco-system and after several iterations it was perfect and singular, albeit complex. We are stable, synchronized and structured –
Chagal’s words re-emerged, breaking like a cloud –
“We create our ‘sense of self’, each one of us. Perhaps we need it.
This is a way of wanting to be, not exactly what/how/who we are.
And we have built entire organisms which accept these constructs – these poor reflections. These structures that have no integrity, no formal contour, no colors.
They float on the surface of something vaster, denser and dark in its depths. We cloak it, ignore it, harbor it reclusively.
The Darkness is dissent.
Let it rise and make you human again. ”
The disease boiled, seared suddenly on my skin with exactly the same heat I could see in his eyes.