My Writings

The Face

Portrain No 1 by Bogdan Sassu

Artwork: Portrait No 1 by Bogdan Sassu

The face is covered in small suns, relaxed. In the hills and valleys of this mask of flesh lie truths, unasked for. On the sides – dried out mud, dust, and thorny beard. In the eyes – Nothing.

The face twists slowly, lays on one side. Its gaze rests on me and sings a song, whose words remain incomprehensible to me. It seems as though it will never rise again, it will lie here forever.

This Face, having gathered a handful of conscience of its own, having torn itself from the tyranny of the master-body, sends its own grimaces to people’s souls.

Unexplained – the Universe chose me in an unleashed night, free of all responsibility, to have a glass of oblivion with the Face.

The moon keeps silent, abandoned construction sites fill the Nothing with terrifying truths, hidden in darkness. Dogs, unnamed by the world, taste the dirt under the table. Stinking workers go home in groups, cursing.

Lightnings strike in his eyes. I throw myself to catch the truth, illuminated in an instance, but only hit a wall of Mockery. The venom that I swallowed takes its toll – I feel the muscles painfully dry, a lost vein is pulsating on my forehead.

He drags me among stones and thorns, on dusty, desolate paths. Soon unsurmountable cliffs break the nose of the soft dirt. He pulled the body into a wet cave…

It probably has not escaped the attention of the watchful Reader that the story is told by a cheap, drunk mind, whose words are not more valuable than Biblical promises.

The face, whose portrait is stretched on this canvas, is the offspring of a fear, sowed into the fragile, mortal body.

I left the fear in the lucid convulsions of the distillate. I dragged his repulsive body into a wet cave, where I dug it into the ground. The moon remained silent. My Face, devoid of all emotion, lied loosely on the skull, the sides and lips hanged on the muscles as on hooks, and in the gaze there shined a newly born freedom.

This experience in the unleashed night, having covered its tracks only for a couple of moments in the glass, would shape the Face of the days, which I would greet – torn myself from the fear-master, I will send my own grimaces to people’s souls.

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