If you believe I am a protagonist in a one-actor play,
that I change my voice, every time I change my costume!
And I take steps in every direction! As if they saw my reflection
in the nearest cosmic body, yet I never felt detained there!
Does the act begin where it ends? Does it have to repeat?
I have my imperfections of decrying the villainy, when I am in a forcified
act to vindicate them as well? Why was fortune so oblique
ever since the quintessence may have been dismantled, it (the quintessence)
had to be patient in its repulsion of embodying the substance of the impersonators!
So does the hero understand that he must play the role of
the conspirators as well! I didn’t dilly dally to give the audience
the Moon, even if they all saw my reflection there. I counted 39
steps in the overwhelming conspiracy that wanted to begat for itself;
I have an idea of True Love and how much she means to me; would I forgo??!
And I said too late before any culmination – Uranus doesn’t befriend the Moon!
Even if enroute from the Mecca of aspirational establishment, Muhammad
imagined he saw my face at his travel-end in Medina. Each of us are directed by
Mandamus! We can have illusions, but can we have misgivings? Do mortals
have the right to impose their will on immortals? I can’t have bequeathals or matches between fish and Moon, in any case!
I know there are illusions (hallucinations) in inspiration (Take Idriss and Muhammad, for instance) as much as there are disappointments
in destiny as much as there are paradoxes that posterity must contend with.
Do we serialise the numbers or does the sun, sometimes, jump? 39 steps were a
conspiracy by detractors to legitimise themselves and monopolise me. I had a memory of another
39 of my past, not theirs! I could even have 40,41, 43, 62, 218, or 257, were it my prerogative!
I can say the ferris-wheel we sit on is not entirely my conjuring! I am unabashed in my silent
bravery and abrogatory insolence (to you all)! I was the fugitive of a conspiracy as much as my own frontier!
I could have slept with the strangest bedfellows, but nauseated at the mere thought of having to
copulate with them! I am not the whore of eternity, you all know that! I am absolutely
virginal in my pretentious promiscuity and entirely resistive uncongeniality!
Don’t blame me, blame the allegory in the numbers; or the mendacity of the heavens or the sodomisers of everything I behold.
I refuse to deny my immense love for my Mum even if I loved my Dad so immensely that I wanted him back!
And would I wound myself in my calves or in my buttocks? Should I have taken 39 steps in all?
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