A Lament for Lost Time — by Manon Ötvös

I feel like The Marschallin, who looks into the mirror and beholds, with the most fervent of melancholy eyes, time trickle down her face. And there in this posture she is overcome with terror, and wonders in an agonizing whisper, “To where has little Resi left? I don’t see her here any longer.”

She is gone. This wide-eyed little girl that once stood in her place, she has evaporated into an aching wisp of loss, indistinguishable among the grey of history that lilts beside us. How terrible it is! That the more one tries to hold dear, the more her face twists, bends, becomes even more swiftly something insubstantial. To reach and to grab so vehemently, only to find that you destroy through distortion everything you touch, this fills the chest with the most unbearably potent of agitation.

Oh, how every dark and chokingly ink-purple turn of my spirit has been forced to ache on behalf of this irretrievability! How it impudently mourns and sobs for the loss of little Resi. How she has vanished without even being granted the entitlement to a solidly black death! A possessed white ostrich plume stands on the dresser. With the noblest sadness, The Marschallin adorns her coif with the regal feather.

These clocks, these wretched demons; just as we cast our adoringly fright-filled gaze upon them, they disintegrate and warp into all that they’re surrounded with. No matter how stoic, how eternally metronomic they persist, they seem to dissolve like burning crepe paper into thin air, curling and shrinking morbidly into themselves.
I only wish I could blame these revolting and perturbed entities. I am eternally indebted to helplessness and tireless, ceaseless guilt; because it’s the intrinsic nature of existence itself that I myself must uninterruptedly manufacture and release these ghosts into abstraction.
The immortality of these residues, this disturbs with the greatest terror of all.

Fleeting. Irreversible.

This looking glass is covered in the fingerprints of a girl that no longer exists. Even as The Marschallin, seated poised and wild-eyed at her vanity, perceives her momentary self before her very own eyes; everything vanishes in that same instant – for every solitary moment of the present has already met its death in the process of becoming.


Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 16 June 2010 at 03:41 PM

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