The man presses his lips together and claims that he has no past.
I see the tense fist, the blood that stopped flowing warmly, the
Blasphemy in his features, the white lines of sorrow and despair.
He drowns his own face and allows his heart to be disintegrated
Behind a functional façade. Guilt embitters his gestures. Shreds every
Possible particle of oblivion into pieces. Guilt is a tireless reminder.
He never thinks about forgiving himself, he saw the consequences of his
Actions. They were never spoken of, never withered away into a darkness
That would transform itself into a divorced light. He would never be alone.
He suppressed the chance of a dialogue, he’d have to face himself, that tremulous
Face that did everything wrong, copied all the deep patterns. He left her in silence.
His voice, an untamable beast that kept massacring the leash and everything it represents.
“Man wearing top hat” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
