Mare Nostrum.

Hace unos días, me preguntaron a quién necesitaba. Así, de imprevisto, sin miramiento alguno. Como si realmente fuera imprescindible depender emocionalmente de alguien (o de algo). Como si la respuesta se augurase, llana y transparente, emulando al mar que conforma nuestro ser. Y, como es natural, mi respuesta fue el silencio. El silencio, tan genuino y a la vez tan holgado, tan ambiguo. Tan henchido de vacío pero, al fin y al cabo, lleno. Será que la soledad encarna todo cuanto preciso para conocerme a mí misma, pues ¡es tan espuria la compañía impuesta! Nos embrida y aplaca con un peso adminículo del que bien podríamos despojarnos para zambullirnos mejor en nuestro océano de intrigas. ¿Acaso no es en dichas aguas donde hallamos esa balsa entre tempestades, ese reconfortante encuentro con un yo a menudo extraño, irreconocible incluso? Es en tierra ignota cuando plantamos las semillas de un espíritu en flor, recreándonos (¡y atormentándonos!) en los más sustanciosos devaneos de nuestra (ausencia de) cordura. Buceando en nuestro propio oleaje, sumergiéndonos más y más profundo. Y es que no hay enseñanza más atractiva que la originada en las entrañas del abismo que sólo nos hospeda a nosotros, como una nada y, por ende, como un todo.

Addah Monoceros.  

Apitoxina.

Y firmó un acuerdo con el miedo, sin pensar, sin desmenuzar su petulancia, como si el empirismo que la ataviaba fuese irrompible y eterno. ¡Lucharé, pelearé! ¡Hasta el mismísimo final! Y quizá fue ese grito terco el que ahogó las tranquilas y doctas palabras de quien sabía, de quien lo había visto, de quien lo conocía mejor que ella. Tal vez se negó a escuchar por el miedo a ininteligibilidad de una niñez perpetua. Creía, pobre ingenua, que la osadía ruge, que se vanagloria en un abismo reacio a devolver la mirada. Vislumbraba, a lo lejos, el tímido indicio de un albor desconocido, invitador incluso; mas el recelo, arduo y revoltoso, la llevaba a rezagarse en las tinieblas de una ambigüedad angosta de la que ansiaba (y temía) escapar. 

Su mente, tan dulce como amarga, constituía un panal cuyo interior jamás había explorado por sí misma. Las abejas zumbaban en derredor suyo, y ella siempre había gustado de contemplarlas, entre arrobada y sagaz, desde una cercanía prudentemente distante. Eran suyas, bellas y letales. Musicales, voluntariosas, perseverantes, revoloteando en una entrópica jerarquía de cadencias melismáticas y arpegios entretejidos entre sí. ¡Tan intricado, tan barroco, tan angustiosamente artificial! Curiosidad, curiosidad... ¿Qué nigromancia se oculta bajo tus seductores interrogantes? ¿Qué clase de embrujo nos embauca en este nuestro esoterismo amado? Pues hoy tiendo las manos hacia el panal, pugnando por descubrir su epicentro, ese núcleo palpitante que hospeda el todo y a la vez la nada... y su enjambre, despiadado y posesivo, asalta mis ojos entre silbidos furiosos, emponzoñándome con el aguijón de quien mataría por conservar el diamante en bruto que acoraza. Un centenar, mil quizá. ¡Y no veo! El dolor me consume, me apedrea, y mis alas de pájaro se pliegan en un atormentado amago de arroparme entre las sombras. 

El círculo vicioso perfora mi piel. Conviene resquebrajarla para espiralizarlo. Derramando sangre, cicatrizando, sanando. Y quizá, en algún futuro remoto, mi epidermis geste un escudo lo suficientemente robusto como para aventurarme en el interior del panal. Pues será que en su médula existe algo mucho mayor que una hermosura melindrosa y sobria. Tal vez la belleza del panal no resida en una explosión de enredaderas peliagudas (pero vacías). Tal vez el panal ni siquiera conforme dicha belleza, sino un obstáculo que yo misma erigí con los antófilos de un pasado turbio y yerto. Será que mi diamante fue enterrado por un hado que sólo mis abejas son capaces de pulir. 

Addah Monoceros.

The darkness of man's heart.

More than a decade ago, I lighted upon a book by William Golding called "Lord of the Flies". It is in truth a very renowned novel, probably his most conspicuous written work, and hypothetically a well earned trigger for the Nobel Prize for Literature. And still I had not read a single piece of his brochures before — though I would make it up to him in the future by reveling in "The Pyramid" or "The Double Tongue", for instance. Nonetheless, it should be noted that I am no literary expert whatsoever, ergo my presumptions should be granted as merely subjective. I have read — quite a lot, to be honest — but, as a human being, my viewpoints are stained by personal experiences and plain propensities as far as preferences are concerned. Bear in mind dystopia is by far my favourite genre, and this gave "Lord of the Flies" a head start on my particular podium. And yet there is something about this book which still haunts me with a delicacy so paradoxically powerful, I always feel I am reading it for the first time, as there is always something new to it I had not spotted on previous readings. 

First of all, I feel obliged to state Golding's main doctrine is almost shockingly lax. There is a beautiful allusion to Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", as "Lord of the Flies"'s finale prongs to an apotheosis: "... and Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy". I do see Golding's point. Throughout the entire plot, he implies humans are naturally evil. Courtesy and reason surrender to ruthlessness and hunger for power. There are noticeable clues which personify that. Ralph himself represents democracy and freedom. Piggy exemplifies science and intellect. Simon stands for religion and mysticism. Jack embodies dictatorships, oppression and ambition. Roger stages psychopaths in the form of remorseless sadism and lack of empathy. The little kids are ordinary day-to-day citizens, nameless creatures who tend to seem irrelevant, yet comprise a vast majority. It all fits. It encloses society. A metaphoric society on an island where a group of boys — for there are no girls, as Golding believed they would despoil the setup of its betrothed aggressiveness — are trapped after a plane crash. And it is somehow funny, since it is clearly foreshadowed that these boys were initially fleeing from the Second World War itself. A wonderful paradox, considering they end up reawakening their own distinct bloodshed. 

However, such characters are fashioned to a very imprecise extent. Good and evil are scattered according to extreme criteria — regardless how young or unexperienced I might still be, I have latterly come to terms with the fact that there is both good and evil in all of us, and that any predominance should be heeded to specific circumstances each of us harbour as individuals. We all act and speak conforming to our secluded happenstances — which brings me into believing good and evil are nothing but sheer delusions society has brought about in order to classify us and steer our behaviour to a common moral path. Which, yet again, makes Golding's arguments far too primo. There is no good and evil — just people who spawn decisions their past has led them to. But I guess this comprises another topic, and it is not my intention to get carried away. 

Something which captivated me at once was the notion that every character who died was physically handicapped. The first boy to die in the book was a little one who had a birthmark across his face. He died in a fire which was initially meant to attract ships to the island, but lost control due to negligence. And then there was this quote I personally loved — "the drumroll continued" — as though something both horrific and heinous was bound to happen. A foretelling, an augury. A warning. And then it was Simon who followed — and he suffered from epileptic fits — supervened by Piggy — asthmatic, nearsighted and rather chubby. Now then, did Golding disdain these minutiae? Where they there by accident? I do not think so. I genuinely sense there are two main motives to such choice. One is that burdened people are first to «fall», both because of their frailty and because of society's implicit «superiority» in comparison. Which brings about another slant of Golding's — society is not meant to harm the weak. It is individuals who do. But Simon was killed by the boys as a whole — «society». Piggy was killed by Roger, under Jack and his hunters' tacit orders — once again, «society». Even Ralph, who was naturally gentle and kindhearted, turned his back on Piggy himself at several points in the story, and did not really bond with Simon. Be that as is may, Golding was particularly inaccurate when it came to envisioning his teachings to the real world. 

But back to the metaphor itself — the boy with the birthmark on his face was part of the «little ones», the citizens. Simon represented religion, as Piggy equated science. All of them were defective, and their deaths prompted a violent outbreak which culminated in a fire and an end to what had started off as a civilised companionship. Was Golding implying it is the lack of coherence and faith which makes the world unsteady? There is definitely food for thought in there. 

And what about the conch? The conch symbolises democracy, allegorically beauteous — but proportionally delicate. It is when it shatters and "ceases to exist" when everything wrecks and culminates on an untellable debacle. Once again, something to reflect on. 

As for those deaths — I felt truly bewildered by Golding's startling writing skills. Let us take Simon's death, just for the sake of it. The description really matched Simon's flair. It was exquisitely aerial, almost esoteric. I have never read a death scene so bewitching and eerie at the same time. Just like Simon, his passing away, though brutal, ended up sweet and ghostly — whereas Piggy's murder was indescribably graphic — "Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red...". Compelling, precise, definite. Just like Piggy's mind. Portraying things just as they were. 

On the subject of the fire, little is to be said. A ship missed the island when Jack failed to watch the pyre and it was fortuitously put out. And then, satirically, a ship was lured when Jack created a blaze intended to annihilate Ralph. Which is ironic, since such flames were not originally meant to attract saviours — and here we recur to my formal remark, which suggests everything happens for a reason, still and all such reason does not always concur to our intentions. Per contra, this is not the quirk I wanted to unearth here — it is the saviours themselves. The adults who dock on the island's shore and aid the children. They are grown ups, presumptively shrewd and sentient grown ups who tower over the kids and  curtain the incubus, pretty much like a deus ex machina. And such deus ex machina is characterised by a naval officer who subsumes a barrier between savagery and order, smudging them together and entailing a subliminal boundary amidst the two — for it is the savagery which actually saves them all. 

Even so, "Lord of the Flies"'s outcome is loaded with gloom and torment. While the officer points out how appalling it is for British boys to act so poorly, he ironically belongs to a world where viciousness coexists with law and justice. Is this signifying humanity's unspoken hypocrisy? Moreover, Jack is now described as «a little boy», and Ralph starts weeping tears — afflictive, rather than joyful tears — which are instantly followed by the other childrens'. Children who striked as dire and almost beastly when alone in the island, and now exhibit nigh signs of fragility. Why is this so? Is it because everything we discern — every conclusion, every sentiment, every theorem — is just a matter of perspective? Was Golding connoting there is no right or wrong when it comes to analogies? Are superiority and inferiority purely meaningless impressions?  

To sum up, there is much more to "Lord of the Flies" than can be seen with the naked eye. Many might brand it as another hollow adventure novel, and there is nothing wrong to that. Veritably, literature is all about biased introspections, and my presumptions are not necessarily faultless. Nevertheless, and bypassing my disagreements with Sir Golding, I sincerely hold this book as a masterpiece. It is critical, dark, savage and piteous, all in one sole piece of work. Just like feelings, just like conceptions — just like life itself. 

Addah Monoceros.

Onkos.

Cáncer. Del griego karkinos (cangrejo), latín (cancer) y sánscrito (karkah). Cangrejo, crustáceo duro (tal y como sugiere etimológicamente su raíz indoeuropea, «kar—»). Férreo y aparentemente imperecedero, describiendo una senda en continuo retroceso hacia un destino indefectiblemente agónico. Sea cual sea su aspecto, el cáncer traza un requiem fatal cuya execración conforma una condena a muerte para cientos de inocentes. Día tras día, semana tras semana, año tras año. Van cayendo, uno a uno, lenta y casi parsimoniosamente, y quienes permanecen en pie se ven penados a un futuro tan quebradizo e incierto, que no hay escudo capaz de refrenar el miedo a los fantasmas pasados. 

Mas sin embargo, y pese a esto, de lo que parece un vil anatema surge una chispa, un fogonazo de luz del que brotan múltiples emociones, ideas, esbozos cargados de ilusión y fortaleza. ¡Qué tangible se hace la fe, cuando son los ojos de un niño los que la propulsan con su temple! ¡Qué singular paradoja la que concibe la confianza más ciega, esa que ve más que ninguna! Pues, como médico prácticamente neonato, soy sabedora de cuan robustos pueden mostrarse los vínculos de la ternura, los instintos altruistas, esos pasos balbucientes pero seguros, aquellos que nos conducen al abrazo agradecido del superviviente y a las lágrimas por quien se rezagó en la oscuridad. 

Y hay quien alega que por qué yo, que de nada sirve inmiscuirme en una guerra que no es la mía. Que la vida alberga mucho más, y que nuestra existencia está para disfrutarla. Que mi linaje viene maldito por un hado ineludible del que muchos han sido víctimas ya, y bajo el cual otros agonizan. Y, ¿cómo voy a rebatirlo? Pues evidente es que los seres humanos pugnamos por aquello que nos hace felices, frecuentemente a expensas de una ignorancia deliberada y casi cobarde. Aun así, desdeñan un matiz: no todos optamos por los atajos más sencillos. ¿Qué sentido hay en ser médico, si no se pone en práctica su ley más cardinal? No es sólo curar. No es sólo el resultado directo (o indirecto), ese que se palpa, se percute, se ausculta, se siente. No es sólo la ufana (y a veces engreída) satisfacción personal. Es la medicina como forma de vida. La filosofía de que consagrar nuestro trabajo al servicio del bien ajeno no supone un deber, sino una inclinación a la que nos entregamos gozosos. Más que médico, soy luchadora. Luchadora, como lo son (y serán) mis pacientes. Luchadora, como los que vencen y como los que caen. Pues uno es médico cuando comprende que la batalla contra una enfermedad no sólo la confrontan los enfermos. 

Addah Monoceros.

Diary of a suicidal cyclothymic.

I know I am alive,
And because these feelings overwhelm me,
Such feelings are worth considering.
Feelings are like gems. Like pearls in the gloom.
Feelings, feelings, feelings.
Maybe this is what dreams themselves dream of — 
For I can feel my stammering heart's tempo. 
Hence a slit of light warily peers into infinity,
Thus I stab the darkness with the dagger my soul is made of.
For my antidote is me, myself, my own.
My trigger.
Carbuncles on my inner sheath which throb and ache are mocking me, 
Making me feel both lost and doomed. 
And I sense these tears which dye my whiteness into scarlet stew,
Conquering me. Trashing me. Killing me. 
A slit of blood warily peers onto my arms,
It comprises an endless river of anguish and woe. 
And darkness stifles my hope and smothers my joy,
Since there are only ashes left in this eternal nightfall.  
My vacuity evaporates to an ocean of pyroclastic hisses. 
Fire is now put out, nothing prevails, 
There is no longer pain inside me. Just emptiness. 
I know I am dead. 

Addah Monoceros.