Spinfull © Sylvain Souklaye
Forgotten injury
Between the void and oblivion, the doubt of my suffering was half resilience and half hangover.
A John Doe inside a no man's land, what could happen? Walls, rails and hands used to be my common enemies.
Being an immortal crash test dummy offered me the possibility to combat social determinism, bourgeoisie order and anyone between my lungs and oxygen.
There are no lessons learned from this war, no tattoos or t-shirts could express what I think and feel.
All my severe injuries are linked to people, and they are all gone. So I accepted to let them go when I learned to grieve.
Only one remains, and it is not about me; I'm just the vessel. After falling from that train at a standstill, I learnt while my back was on the ground, that my spine wasn't mine. My spine belongs to a sugar cane field long ago, somewhere in Martinique. And few in France acknowledge this collective injury.
Forgiven pain
Bit by bit, my body started to resemble a puzzle with a cognitive disorder.
When knucklebones became fractal, the game was over. I always faced a dilemma. Painkillers or feeling the pain? I'm not a masochist.
I can't tolerate, my mind can't tolerate, being phased out from my body, even though they have a complex relationship.
Before becoming a vessel for strangers, I'm an armour for the fragile and sensitive parts remaining of my innocence.
Writing with back pain is somehow worse than carrying it in movement. The spine can't sustain the eyes and the hands’ urge.
Gravity drives me from one point to another to survive ghosts and share their memories; it is a reasonable journey to hell.
A long time ago, I spent almost seven months in bed; even there, trapped, the pain became bored of me. But, it couldn’t last otherwise it would have ended me.
Final form
Before the uniform, the ropes, the "stage", and the audience, there are secrets and confessions.
A pantomime inside a marionette then a ventriloquist, is the what! But I'm not stressed, and I do not think it is already too late.
I'm alone, they are around, but there is nothing to see, seek, or solve. Time is full, space is empty, and I'm balanced.
How to articulate what is not the production of a system, and anchor the "Why" in me, in you, in us?
Breathing is not a part of the equation; no storm on the horizon, just a quiet body, a silent pain and now.
If I was an old soul, should I have more to sell than myself? And, if so, I do not have to be here, but still...
It is the only moment in my life when I'm at peace with architecture because it is not a regime but a placebo.
Fist of the North Star © Sylvain Souklaye
PS: I'll write about Depopulated + Disconnected + Unlimited = Uprooted for Movement Research at Judson Memorial Church when it will have finally left my body. 🤷🏾♂️