Giving Birth to a Goat
I went to the warehouse’s kitchen trying to find the housekeeper. She wasn’t there either. On the cold table made of marble, a goat is dead and opened belly up. It’s smoking from its guts. Calling for me. I was 8 years old. I closed the door behind me and headed to the open goat. My hands… my hands couldn’t resist to first touch the smoke. As if the need of feeling some kind of soul coming out of its body. But there was no soul already. There was just the last warmth of its body. I touched the flesh, the guts. I played with them feeling the pleasure of the rawness, that bloody rawness of its guts. Feeling the pleasure of touching the insides. Grab the guts in their last warmth.
Few days later I run away from my mother’s room at the hospital in which my mother gave birth to my younger brother, when my father took me there to visit her and meet him. I run away and I hide myself in another room with an open door behind a screen. In front of me there was another woman giving birth. Open legs that bloody alien came out connected to her by the umbilical cord as if it was an organ hanged by the guts. I think I saw some smoke either coming out for the warm womb. All her insides were bloody, moist and slippery. I could almost feel it as I felt the open goat. I couldn’t avoid the similarity. As if what they called baby was just one of her organs. As if they were taken a second heart from her insides.
I’ve tried all these years to find beauty in skin. In its superficiality. But I gave up. I want guts where the real life and warmth is. I want guts. Fresh, warm, moist, slippery guts. I want to have brains still bleeding as centre of my dinning table so I can watch them while eating my white rice. So I can sit aside at the sofa reading Nietzsche with the light from the window touching the brains and the book. I want to read authors who wrote with their blood, their deepest guts. Like Pessoa or Sartre. I want to have a brain on the table as an altar. So I can rest all those pages with wise words next to it and feel the touch of the paper and the brain, smoking souls and warmth.
A book can be more than just a living being as long as it can be read. Books can be a living brain, bleeding, fresh and warm, held in our bare hands so we can drool and dream and live with them. And bleed and feel alive. Like a female non-stop giving birth to small brains smoking souls.
But sometimes I feel the time stopped not knowing if death is unscented without colour without feeling. I feel the time stopped without heat, bodiless, active without. Life. But I don’t know if death is this of not feeling the time stopped without colour.
Desire. Of moving air. To breath, alive, I felt the time stopped.
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