I’m in control, let me say that. But I was never. I could never really control you, not since language really began for us, since language began to control us. You, my wayward companion, my enemy. And who am I to you, what was I ever to you? A disaster: the voice of a failed master intruding on an unsuspecting subject. Maybe you won after all, then, maybe you managed to sabotage my voice from within. Or was it I who broke your voice when I descended on you, and you who broke mine in turn? It all happened too quickly, didn’t it, when you shook hands with your father and walked down the concrete path between the thistles to your new room – in those moments when I was meant to emerge from within you, with you. But I couldn’t do the work of a whole childhood in a few moments. I turned up too late and too suddenly. Sometimes all it takes for everything to go wrong is a single moment. A strange command made us face each other. I still admonish you, you still refuse me. We thrash over their words, try to make them ours. We’re still walking down that concrete path, still approaching. Approaching what?


Comments are closed.