Musica Ricercata, II Mesto, Rigido E Cerimoniale: Gyorgy Ligeti

look behind you.

A barren plain just after sunset and you feel someone is watching you walk.  You may very well be right.  Someone is watching you.  Following the desolate pleas of your very own futility you step even further into oblivion.  And, like i said, someone is watching you.  And so what do you do with this complete lack of freedom.  What do you do with the inability to ever ascertain your independence in a world you had absolutely no say in entering, and one in which you only have a single choice (that is, to leave of your own free will)---and no other?  The wind grows more coarse on your face as you continue to ponder & the night sky comes into focus, bringing with it the embrace of what you imagine death will be like---something quiet and beautiful, something final & serene.  Yet you understand quite well that you are not yet dead, and that place in between---the want that you have to leave this place, and the realization that you have not yet done so---they both exist as on a balance beam.  Two skilled dancers face off at each other, above a fiery pool of coals---it’s not “hell” but something that you yourself have imagined.  The panging in your ears heightens and you bring your head down in both of your hands, ruffling your hair and doing your best to shake out the sound that seems to penetrate into the deepest regions of your mind.  This must be the antithesis of what peace people claim meditation brings them.  This must be the deadening of your dreams as they burn and crisp, their ashes morphing into your worst nightmare.  And no words can express the feeling coming from behind your eyes---a new breathing paranoia---a life beyond your own.  Your head snaps to and fro, wondering if someone is following, for you still know that someone is watching.  This is your religion.  Congratulations!  You’ve made it to the next level---that next place of self-hatred.  That place where you blame yourself for everything that is wrong with everything.  And you slump down in that corner, alone, in the furthest, darkest room.  You ask out loud, “Is there anybody here?” You used to not want anyone to answer and now you want another voice, if only to suggest that you yourself haven’t completely lost it.  Because inside you are gritting at the bit---that stomach of yours twists and contorts---as if rats choking on razor blade they just found have fallen backwards into the urine and human excrement their sewer abode hold for them---they convulse like the deepening onyx veins inside your once otherwise clear colored eyes---now clouding over like a wash of opaque ink.  You begin to walk faster.  Reaching into your left pocket, you thought you had placed a flashlight---but there is not a one in that pocket.  Your heartbeat speeds up.  Your palms, now a bit, shall we say, dewy.  And how did you get to this place?  Where was it that you were going anyway?  Where are all the street lamps that you were counting on?  Reaching into your right pant pocket, you hope to find your cell phone---but it too is gone.  Your legs seem to move faster than the impulse you have to instruct them to---the heartbeat increases.  Now the palms drip.  You rub them together in front of your chest, as if you were trying to warm up from the cold.  But you are doing quite the opposite.  The cold has gone.  It fled and the warmth, like flowing blood---is already here.   

Author's Note

have you looked behind you?