The Black star of mu
(Translation of Francesco Saverio Maione)
The air is static, unreal, an ordinary day of a seemingly ordinary man that does the same things for years, he shaves his beard, he puts his shirt on, having a shower, brushing his hair, having breakfast and finally he leaves.
He leaves home and he loses himself completely into that static air, into that unreality existing outside.
The path is like a dog hanging tongue, long, slimy and lonely. The houses look small and empty, their windows ravenous mouths watching towards the empty. The nothingness fills the gaps, leading and ruling over empty spaces, swallowing the grey and cold cement, impetuously devouring day and night, any present and future life music and song.
That man is alone. His loneliness is not only physical, it is definitely an inner sorrow, an indefinable anguish, deep as a grief that goes into the stomach, a weight on the shoulders, harming his own gut, that creeps into his breath, into his head and it really hurts.
He comes across to a stray dog which has a yellowish and suffering glance. He thinks and quivers inside. Luce shivers, with no sense, purely emotional. No voices around there, not even a breeze or a single gust of wind. An unreal, metaphysical silence shrouds everything, every instant and breath.
It’s still too early, too early to live and too early to die, too early in every sense, philosophically and temporally. The sun hasn’t driven away the night shadows yet. Hands of darkness despairingly grab the houses facades with their black and sharp nails sunk in the soft flesh of some roofs. Fast and cold feet of darkness run, they run trying to avoid the first burning hot and destroying rays from a rising sun, so they will not turn into dust and ruins of gloom, forgotten ashes. The night, as everyone, does not accept to fade into grey tones and then to die into the full cruelty and indecency of the light.
In the meanwhile the man is walking, with a burden of his work bag, with a burden of his age, of his prolonged silences and personal complexes, taking around his soul into the unenthusiastic plasticity of the terse atmosphere. Here it is the creature, facing him, standing, gorgeous, regal, as usual. Not even a wrinkle on its face, not a white hair, it doesn’t get old, it couldn’t get old and no one knows if it’s a good thing or not, it’s simply like that. Unreal and timeless beauty.
That man smile becomes like a bitter sneer. The creature is the pain, the bond, the start and the end, the poisonous honey of the destiny. Whilst the man goes down three steps out of nine that are in between him and the creature, he says loud its name: «Luce!». A word that drives away darkness and nightmares. Luce…
That name rolls over the hard silence of the steps, over the little houses, over the ancient stones polished by the elements. Shout and thrown suddenly into the world, this name falls down like a rock over the overcrowded and exhausts darkness, faded by the cruel and deadly dawn.
Luce turns around, as this is a powerful name, it’s a key, a magic word that opens mysterious worlds.
Her name when shout strongly echoes into the air. She slaps the ancient dust, whilst the darkness changes her colour into a brighter purple. Luce arrives, going up three steps, she is so close that the man can smell its scent. She smells like indefinable wind breeze, bruised roses, wild moss. She is white dressed, long ebony hair, her nails a silver white so bright that could blind someone, like ready-to-fight blades. Her eyes are instead black empty abyss, deep as ancient wounds, movable black islands into the very white aseptic sclera. Big eyes, sad as cliffs into a lost sea and now drained by some spell, never got wet by salty tears.
The man looks at Luce, sailing into those black petrol deep pupils, a thick ocean, sticky. There aren’t any boats, neither arms, not mussels, and not even human emotions, that would understand that indefinite black petrol with no start and not end, whirl which has seen parallel universes, she has indelible and dark mark.
That man cannot make it done, he is weak, similar to the darkness that change colour into grey fading in the air. Luce wins over wins over him, she is stronger, not human, she has better skills and different world muscles and blood. Her silver nails are just sinking into the man flesh, the grip wounds his arm and ideally rips his heart, reducing it into a small pieces.
The man is bleeding, the warm blood that comes out his arm is blending into her cold skin. Here he is, the man grabs as a weapon a sharp bit of his useless, pathetic and weak heart. He throws his heart with his words, hitting, hitting the creature with his tongue that is used as a weapon and then with his hand. Now he grabs a really sharp paper knife. He hits. Luce is injured, she falls down.
The creature let herself fall down without loosing control over the things.
Is everything over like this? Just with a falling wound?
Where is the story then?