L'escargot
‘My shell is mobile solitude
And my soul is its inner core
Waiting to be set free’
~Claude Defaut
Oh I am a snail indeed!
I am a solitary creature; like a proud ship I am perfectly content to revel in my solitude. I don’t get lonely per se: the prospect of being alone doesn’t perturb me. I’m more the type who gets lonely for the company of a particular person. I’d rather be alone in ignorance of perfection than in the knowledge of its existence, and denied the possibility of obtaining it. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I’d rather not know what I’m missing out on. I’d rather not taste a drop of the fiery elixir of pleasure that could await me, as a mere drop of a kiss burns upon my lips and I, ravenous, am wild with a fury of insatiable desire. Perhaps this is the only exception to the rule ‘knowledge is a curse, but ignorance is worse’.
And so I am content to remain in the cosy safe womblike darkness of my shell, rarely venturing out for fear of discovering someone who will break my heart once I have voluntarily made myself vulnerable and exposed soft fleshy parts that feel so much pain. I am slow to trust and confide in someone. I am reluctant to take the risk of glancing up at the blue sky or velvet star bestudded heavens outside as the danger of leaving my pearly confines is too great: I am risking my life by venturing out into the open. I am risking my blissful ignorance and emotional independence – satisfaction with my life as I hitherto have known it. After love, my life can never be my own again. There will always be a conspicuous chasm or void where that person once was. An empty chamber of my heart. A new collection of memories to gather dust. One concentric circle closer to the infinite and serpent-infested abyss of despair and self-loathing.
And after all of this, I am so painfully slow in moving on.
Consequently, I am the first to retreat if things get too deep. I am essentially afraid of commitment. Commitment to someone who may ultimately render my life utterly devoid of all pleasure and who will rob me of my self-confidence and surreptitiously leave its equivalent weight in neurosis in its place. I cannot give myself precisely because I know I will be sincere, but fear the other will not. Paradoxically, my compulsive honesty leads me to hide myself away. I have a need to escape before the tendrils of love insidiously and irrevocably wind and entwine themselves ten times around my heart then ten times more like thorny vines strangling it, leaving all its dusky petals to fade and turn to dust.
However, this elaborate yet hopelessly inadequate defence mechanism is intrinsically flawed. I feel so safe in my little shell, its smooth contours painted with the spirals of time as though with a fine sable brush. But how very deceptively fragile it is. So easily and irreparably shattered at the slightest clumsy and inadvertently misplaced step. I am happy to potter along until some great fucking bird descends upon me and mercilessly smashes the vessel of my heart into so many tiny splinters, to devour and consume my very essence of self. Ultimately destruction is inevitable whether I ask for it or not.
Leave me alone curled up under the green freshness of a dew-moistened leaf.
The rain doesn’t bother me.
And my soul is its inner core
Waiting to be set free’
~Claude Defaut
Oh I am a snail indeed!
I am a solitary creature; like a proud ship I am perfectly content to revel in my solitude. I don’t get lonely per se: the prospect of being alone doesn’t perturb me. I’m more the type who gets lonely for the company of a particular person. I’d rather be alone in ignorance of perfection than in the knowledge of its existence, and denied the possibility of obtaining it. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I’d rather not know what I’m missing out on. I’d rather not taste a drop of the fiery elixir of pleasure that could await me, as a mere drop of a kiss burns upon my lips and I, ravenous, am wild with a fury of insatiable desire. Perhaps this is the only exception to the rule ‘knowledge is a curse, but ignorance is worse’.
And so I am content to remain in the cosy safe womblike darkness of my shell, rarely venturing out for fear of discovering someone who will break my heart once I have voluntarily made myself vulnerable and exposed soft fleshy parts that feel so much pain. I am slow to trust and confide in someone. I am reluctant to take the risk of glancing up at the blue sky or velvet star bestudded heavens outside as the danger of leaving my pearly confines is too great: I am risking my life by venturing out into the open. I am risking my blissful ignorance and emotional independence – satisfaction with my life as I hitherto have known it. After love, my life can never be my own again. There will always be a conspicuous chasm or void where that person once was. An empty chamber of my heart. A new collection of memories to gather dust. One concentric circle closer to the infinite and serpent-infested abyss of despair and self-loathing.
And after all of this, I am so painfully slow in moving on.
Consequently, I am the first to retreat if things get too deep. I am essentially afraid of commitment. Commitment to someone who may ultimately render my life utterly devoid of all pleasure and who will rob me of my self-confidence and surreptitiously leave its equivalent weight in neurosis in its place. I cannot give myself precisely because I know I will be sincere, but fear the other will not. Paradoxically, my compulsive honesty leads me to hide myself away. I have a need to escape before the tendrils of love insidiously and irrevocably wind and entwine themselves ten times around my heart then ten times more like thorny vines strangling it, leaving all its dusky petals to fade and turn to dust.
However, this elaborate yet hopelessly inadequate defence mechanism is intrinsically flawed. I feel so safe in my little shell, its smooth contours painted with the spirals of time as though with a fine sable brush. But how very deceptively fragile it is. So easily and irreparably shattered at the slightest clumsy and inadvertently misplaced step. I am happy to potter along until some great fucking bird descends upon me and mercilessly smashes the vessel of my heart into so many tiny splinters, to devour and consume my very essence of self. Ultimately destruction is inevitable whether I ask for it or not.
Leave me alone curled up under the green freshness of a dew-moistened leaf.
The rain doesn’t bother me.
posted by Pallas Athene | 4:12 pm
The real tragedy of this post, is that the shell never hardens unless you come from under the leaf. What you think is your soft, fragile shell, is actually your innocent baby skin, unable to develop because you keep it so safe.
How do you expect to travel and touch the perfections of the world, without an adventurer's shell?
[insert smilie here, by the way]
If acceptance of pain wasn't such a massive part of existence, understanding and compassion I would completely agree with the contents of this post.
But experiencing all of *that* just makes life, in a metaphorical way, much more tangible.
And Illegible is a bit of an idiot ain't she?