Cioran from under the bridge

Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, all crammed into one place. I’m not sure what’s going on in Southbank – it’s so full of people. The breeze feels tender but strange. I can’t distinguish the cold from the hot in this air, as several areas of my perception are affected.

I see the Thames washing ashore some dirt, an opaque face of ambiguity that reflects the city’s blind eye. (Probably the eye through which we all gaze during daytime.)

A carousel is a repetition of movements with no exit for the mind, so your footsteps follow those of others. Plus, there are so many kids.

Words and pictures of manipulation coax you into adopting an attitude that suits only them. The colours and fonts are pretty, but what’s lurking beneath the surface?

Under the bridge, I find comfort. The sound and vibrations of the passing train overlap the sound of people’s cheering and applauses in this vast space. Like an emulation of thunder. A low sky so rusty but close.

The deepwater keeps gazing up. It’s keeping the secrets at the bottom. If the rusty sky ever falls, it will crush you and your secrets. It was a fake sky, after all.

The real thing is behind the rusty sky. But what on earth is behind that thing that you worship? Doesn’t it kill you every time you realise that you won’t ever know?

Vertical carrions, dancing carrions, we’re a walking paradox, living by choice, smiling through the void as we create something to fill it. The fill is all that counts. But the void is always hungry, as it digests fast. In case of danger, you should always keep a creative invention in your pocket, but nothing will ever be good enough.

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