Any physical violence is not experienced at once. It hits you first in the flesh, but what you keep recalling is not any of those concrete actions of violence; not too much about the somatic pain either, if it doesn’t extend or overwhelm.
It is the scene. The scene of loss, of absurdity. The scene -- as a whole, where your soul that you used to think as inseparable from life was radically downtrodden to a lifeless thing like ceramic. Everything, including the soul, was then beautifully simple for the violence. Beautifully simple, and thereby simply dull, silent, frail, and broken. The absolute weight of you and other ‘things’ in that space crashed into one another. It felt like the sound of steel but you couldn’t really hear, since you were deprived of your soul, no longer considered that sentient. This is the most devastating reminder of violence. Your body was there, so was your capacity of pains, but you were forced to repel them. You repelled because your soul was not there to uphold, only to turn down. So you fell to the ground, into a completely frozen space of emptiness; you shrank like a rag. A living body can be so easily overthrown for no good reason. No reason. Reason failed so quick. Too soon you were weakened by the invasive feeling of shame. Shame. Yes, you would be constantly weakened by that part. Your indignity of that powerlessness from this point hit you twice. This time your soul was back, but already splintered. Repetitively, the last hit would be a multiple; it came in one by one but disorderly through the close follow-on as you had to start responding to any other one’s comfort, or care, or simply an enquiry ... whether sincere or not. Mostly not . Now you are paralysed: You can’t say it hurts; neither can you imply the hurt; not for a noble behaviour of restraint, but out of the thoroughness of your abasement. This way, you shall find another shame of being paralysed and you can never tune it out.
2024.01