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Red Cross – I, Resilient [Rotes Kreutz – Ich, Unverwüstlich]
It bleeds from it's neck, and uses the spilled and by now rotten blood and tries to create something beautiful from something ugly on the verges of despair. Something from the scenes of a war, a teenage soldier or a young death. There is something beyond the scene. There is color within it. Despite absolute downfall, the illusion of optimism glows in them, and it creates all that is beautiful. The tragedy figuratively bleeds into hope like watercolor and turns into something beautiful. If only the mind could heal the scars. But in the cold, you still freeze, even when a god calms your mind. And in the fire, you still burn, even when you can imagine survival.* In this case, the iron in its blood still oxidates on itself. It still lays still in place and withers. Even when its mind drifts slowly away in dreamlike anticipation of bliss, the reality doesn’t change. What’s valuable though, regardless of the circumstances is how much more the experience of death becomes natural. And through that gains value. Death is release — is resolution. However bloody the scene, whatever comes after or doesn’t come after, is resolution.

Cf. Hue (2024). The ego ideal and self perception [Unpublished Writings 3].

In some world, it’s peaceful for him. It wouldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t sting. It wouldn’t even have happened. But in this world, it did happen, it did hurt and it did sting. You can try to imagine yourself out of it. But you know no amount of pills, dreams or books can cover it up. He likes to think he can stand above it some day, like that would make a difference, like that means he would’ve never been below it. He’s still so young, and already so so dead.

(N:"Det gjemmer seg i pusten, når det blir synlig gjennom kulden. Er det ingen andre som ser det? Sårbarheten i kald hud, i skjelvende hender?")

The sound of armor falling from your skin. The traces of oxidization, nakedness unfolding (you bloom)
You survived your own nature, you transcended (your past) it. Welcome anew, to your new world. You don’t need to starve anymore.
The sun has risen in all her fury/glory again. It’s warmth and violence, only today you recognize the beauty. You lived your lifetime in a motherless womb (in the cocoon of your withdrawal) What will you make of this opportunity.
You are reborn.
So fragile in this state. Wind is so beautiful in your hair, but at such a young skin you see fit of no other touch than the one of your own hands. So that even the wind becomes violence. And the sun, and the moon.
Don’t go yet, they (we) have so many beautiful things to show you. You don’t have to need nothing anymore. You don’t need to be so vigilant. You don’t need to live in war.
The war is over, and we want you to come back.
____________
“The war is not over, its far from over” You return to me, a desolated spell. All the suffocation you endured crammed in the metal armor you just return to. Sweat and iron, so sharp it cut you to pieces, you suffocate. The only war being fought is the one against yourself.
The sound of skin getting cut. The sound of a flower withering. In abundance, you choose death. A new winter. You will die never having lived, or loved, or lost
You think not trying means you win.

“I can survive this” Survival alone isn’t the achievement you need. Sun and moon and wind, and people and hearts and books, know now, they will never know you and you will never know them. Is this the selfishness you proclaim? Is this your only pride in life/death? Dying. Acting dead?

“I can survive.” Indeed you can, but what you can’t. You can’t sacrifice yourself in order to live. You can’t sacrifice in order to achieve anything meaningful. Still You’re right. You’ve been so cold for so long, you’d bring blisters to anyone you choose to touch. You’d curse with your fingers, Your delicate mess belongs to you, so please, in truth for the sake of everything else, die in your armor, pride yourself in eternal survival as the only meaningful achievement.

Please. Die.

You die and I die, so differently so far away but you knew me and I knew you and now were going to forget each other. We both are just editorials. We endure a process. The prossess of your skin turning to frosted glas, and lungs filling with salt water.
We've known eachother, and now we feel eachother slowly forget. In truth, I'm entirely like you. I judge you in your armor, but im in my own Elfenbeinturm. You in steel and armor, me in bricks and plaster.

And is that not the case for everyone? They lie to me and themselves and I lied to you. We all die in some kind of fortress where we're all small and fragile but we like to keep up the image that no, we are strong, we are bold, and if we wanted to we could kill each other.
____________
“What I make of this Opportunity is my thing. Not yours to delight in judgement within. My isolation is my battle. I am in this eternal position because I've lived WAR. I've survived WAR. I live in fear because everything is WAR. And while I have had now the opportunity to, baby, touch the sun let it carry me in warmth along a river with gentle wind, cake and friends. I hear the ivory tower call to me, command me, scare me, force me, force me to obedience. I pray to this ivory tower, I play for this ivory tower. I am obedient, I know my place. I am adjusted to silence. And as if my books my pills my imagination aren't enough for me. I do well with little. I do so well with little. I turn a stone into a cave that buries me safe. I make with a seed a prosperous field that feeds me for years. I make of a crumb a meal for everyone and everything until everything is gone, by making myself so small, so very little. By eating little, by demanding little. (In return I give little. But this ivory tower takes from me, demands more there is nothing left for me!) A field, a river, a sun, a breeze are so much. Too much. My tower, my body, my mouth isn't so big. I am small, I take little. I starve because thats how I survive this scarcity (but everything is so abundant... everyone is living in abundance!) I am not disobedient. I am not large. I am small. I take little. I am obedient.

I've felt it. How beautiful it was when everything was abundantly perfect, in eternal balance because we gave and took in eternal balance. It was the abundantly eternal balance between eye contact and looking away, the abundantly eternal balance between being and not being, the abundantly eternal balance between platonic love and affection, the abundantly eternal balance between friendship and compassion, the abundantly eternal balance between balance and imbalance, the abundantly eternal balance between perfection and imperfection. I realized in that week that life could be a not-war-state (there is never peace.)
People were kind. Not violent. Kind always, never violent, people were in a not-war state. And I was allowed to be in a not-war state too. I was so abundant. And so was everyone else.