Musings. Ex Libris

A real fighter must never look back. The road he sallies forth his pilgrimage, trudges pass all obstacles and comes striding into the battlefield where the fate of his game is decided- this road should, for the present, remains merely a faint lustre of a fading rainbow: diaphanous, forgettable within several blinks of eyes. The fighter is a loner and sole player of his own game. The contortions on a fighter’s face give an impression of a child blowing up a balloon, but the fighter is more like the balloon than the child. His immortal strength is what the gods are most envious of. At any moment the fighter is expected to transform into a sacred figure; that the harder he fights the lighter he feels. Eventually everything is levitated. However, when a fighter is defeated it is like a monolith that collapses. The spectators are at a loss of what to do but gape, until slants of scintillating gaze strikes the fighter like the bitterest mockeries. Thus the fighte

I always liken the control of rage to the cradling of an animal infant- one has to keep a vigilant eye on its unpredictable mischiefs, and the task is made difficult when all the time the carer imparts a language alien to the baby, and the baby the carer. Rage rarely speaks in a language I comprehend and often appears in a manner of extreme intractability. In images or visions rage is, typically, the abrupt fire that burns all, leaving the barren land that parches under the ruthless sun. Rage can be also found throbbing fitfully in every visible vein of one’s pallid skin, and sooner or later one’s body of map will be crisscrossed with an army of red snakes. Fire and red are principally the two words that epitomize rage. When confronted by the formidable presence of rage, even the most glacial ice bows down in defeat and cries the waxen tears that leave an imperceptible trace on the scorching ground. The title of a Cy Twombly’s painting sums up all: The Fir