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Spem (en)

SPEM (« Hope »)

He received the announcement like a high speed boomerang in the face. A real shock. He is astonished, almost apathetic. The cancer would finally have gotten him, slowly insinuating into him, getting comfortable in a cosy organic nest, nicely warm, knitting his chaotic and malignant web. Thus, at this very moment, he feels like a bubble floating in the air. A cope mechanism left him with a lack of emotions, creating an empty and plain space-time inside him. He looks around, unable of acknowledging the situation. Images are blurry, sounds don’t have any rhythm, and smells have no flavour. No echo, nothing, just complete void.

Then come denial. He starts to realize. “It can’t be possible »! It has to be just a bad dream, an unpleasant nightmare that he can’t accept for real. He tries to protest, to verify the information, hiding behind a disguise, an imitation of a smile, a mask. He did not lose any vital force, power, or ardour. It has to be a masquerade.

After negation, anger appears. He is revolted, his impulses of violence almost leading to destruction are the expression of his feeling of injustice. He realises that this explosion is just the reflection that there is no coming back.  “NO! You can’t take my health away from me… “Divine entity or symbolized ego, he trades with the wind, the water, the rain. This is it. He realised. Immortality was just an imaginary fantasy.

Sadness is overwhelming. He repeats to himself: “The good thing about the rain, is that you can cry it out and nobody can see, it’s just salted water…” He’s hurt. Violently hurt. « My heart is an open wound ». He doesn’t seem to recognize himself anymore. He is looking for a way out, asking questions, hopelessly. He thinks about hell, he feels cold, he thinks about death. His death.

It is too hard. He lets go. He is resigned and collapses behind his tragic mask, which he kept just in case. He wears another person’s skin, trying to leave from a body which is not his anymore. He is fragile, vulnerable, and weak.

Thankfully, he is not alone, and times passes. He let the malignant companion find asylum in his body, but now he will face it and beat it. He finally accepts. He is not fatalist, but has been told that « life is unfair », and that is the way it is. At night, he dreams about finding treasures, symbols of precious psychic energies, which are hidden deep down in him. It is hope’s vital strength, the Spem.

Then, he believes again, cherishing at every second this precious golden string of hope, which is growing up every day. He tries to rebuilt. He accepts his new him, without a mask or a disguise. His visible or unvisible scars are the proof of who he his today, of what he has been through. And they are beautiful. They are the proof of his willpower, his courage, his strength. They are marks of his Spem… He should be proud of himself. He won. They won.

Macha POIRIER, 2017

Hystrix (en)

HYSTRIX

 

Has the perversion of humanity thought always been programmed deep inside the cognitive structure of his mother tongue ? Or is it the confusion of tongues by the Lord to Babel that then deprived humanity of a part of his thoughtful conscience ? Because there is an inexplicable chaos of all eternity, a psychic cataclysm, quantifiable but unspeakable, which is given to too many women to know.

Threatened, insulted, wounded, they are victims of intimate terrorism. Aggressed, humiliated, mutilated, they become the object of a man, the object of an hour, of a day, of a month, or a year, the object of an indelible invasive robbery. Destroyed, alienated and privated, they are subjected to a physical attack whose emotional grenade explodes in the heart, depositing unalterable and permanent debris, erasing everything from their candor.

Between two retchs, they find themselves swimming in an ocean of tears, taking a shameful swell and a sea of hatred. The bastard drizzle causes a salt of rage and bitterness to flow down their faces, consuming them slowly, burning their eyes and gnawing their skin.

These terrorists devastate everything inside these women, aspiring each crumb of their humanity. Bursting thieves of souls, they sweep up the smiles of these women, leaving them as dead, blowing their joy and pride, leaving only an affective desert… An empty look….

Then comes nothingness… A hole in space-time… A scream without soundtrack… A spectral presence… Flashes in black and white… And a dizzying fall… When rising up, a dull reflection in the broken mirror… Is it their own image ? Was it a nightmare ? Suddenly, an echo… A sound becomes clear. A shape. A hand reaching out. No…. Yes ? Is it a mirage ? It’s so fuzzy, we could easily miss it. A ghotsly appearance, we hope that it gets them out of that deadly storm.

The after-effects are heavy, the thought is broken, but they are no longer alone. Some of them have remained entangled in the depths of this sadistic maelstrom, but they want to reborn and rebuilt themselves. The internal conflict that animates them will have chosen the psychological vendetta, which will take the form of a shell and armour. « You tried to break me ? I’m the one who wins. Look, I’m still there. »

The mental phoenix will make them stronger than they imagine. A primary and animal instinct will surface again. All claws out there, they’ll be brighter and more alert than ever. Ready to take out the fangs and bite, small long-shaped pimples will begin to grow along their backs, like upright harrows, fortified rampart of the intimate. Zoomorphic humanoid, their pointed shield will be their best asset. Prophylactic shielding with sharp spurs, it’s better not to approach it. Unless the Hystrix has given you a permission to enter in her safe house ?

Macha Poirier, 2017