And all together they are selling their souls away, sighing for the great world. Seducing each other to follow the same path. Delicious dictatorship of a forever lost humanity. Golden days still remain, insatiably running, like poison in their veins. “Even death will fail to bring an end to their solitude“, assures Láslzó F. Földenyi. What is on the inside? What is they can offer? Might they seem parts of a union, parts, pieces, they always will be.
Blind by a permanent eclipse, the earthliness they know touches all limits, conceptual, tangible. They believe it as being good, a mark of knowledge. A matter of control. They master that ability like no other. Above all, they are delighted to look at the world as it is and not how it aims to be. Creating the imaginative space around us, continually reinventing it. This is a notion own by books and hommes de lettres, they presume, if not assume. Such a waste. The actual waste to them is time consuming. The soul does not require time though, it adapts, respectful of a carnal existence to be lived through. But they ignore it – such a truth hides in the books made for les hommes de lettres only.
And the world spins madly on. Not far from being an understatement, the universe welcomed humanity, who taught it then a splendid madness, perfect in its defects. Thanks God for that splendour sucking the ephemeral from the finite, helping to endure an everyday sanity. Only Melancholics, daughters and sons of Saturn, feel responsible of their own fate. Allowing destiny to do its work implies a certain, if not grave of consequences, arbitrary power to be executed on one’s behalf. Every single day. Every single night. It means embracing a tormented soul by its own solitude. How romantic this might seem, far from conformity with public opinion, the struggle to normally see the world is real. They are misunderstood because of it, believed as stupid, as missing common sense and neglecting simplicity. Nevertheless, Saturn’s children perceive what is invisible to the ordinary, shades and perspectives yet unveiled.
It was Adam who made human kind sinful; Eve was simply trying to reach her own completeness. Rejection of grace and choice of freedom, a madness she was ready to fully assume. Yet Adam destroyed it all, not preconditioned for denying the divine ecstasy, not made for the divine furor. He and only himself should have formed beginning and end. Birth and death. He was not aware of it. Although humanity stands for contradiction, either one is able to cope with it or one is not. To relate to one’s being, both to the finite and the infinite, this could have been achieved by Eve, not him. But he faked it, pretending he could.
Every notes of this world owns parts of her, pieces of him. To tell one is masterpiece of the former or the latter remains simple ignorance. The ying cannot exist without the yang, the Earth without the sun. They keep hanging around each other without even noticing that life could appear lighter. Although the feeling would only take part in a new wonder about to get lost among dreams and whispers, hearts would warm up and enter a waltz of infinite love. No need to precise the ephemeral and naive trait of such a daydream – starting with the truth happens to be the best choice. It always gets you at the end. They have to live further, obliged to destiny in one way or the other.
The Melancholics, like Eve, gaze on to the face of life with lucidity, believed to be idiots in public opinion’s history, while they actually read what wants to be read. Such an abyss certainly disconnects them from the rational minds. When John Berger explains the difference between drawing and photography, it all makes sense: “Photographs do not translate from appearances. They quote from them.“ If applied to Roland Barthes’ theory: no code needed anymore to convey messages. Roughly put, the Melancholics are the drawing of the world we are all living in; the Rationals its direct printers. As much cosmic as their balance can be, Saturn is violently joining Mercury, unceasingly opening and closing the door on growth and achievement.
Passers-by peacock in the streets naively convinced about their cohesion as terrestrial flesh and bones. Obsessed with carnal perfection, their path look like Dante’s inferno: a never-ending cycle where every sin deserves its space of chimeric redemption. Back and forth, as Kenneth Anger and ‘Lucifer Rising’ might depict, an obsession is the evilest human tragedy. The one extending among passer-by is crushing dreams against the wall of reality; and Mercury laughs. Yet Saturn’s children keep reaching for beyond, not ashamed to get the etiquette of insanity. For sure, they gaze. Onto a life they make theirs. Instead of passively absorbing it as it comes, materially focused on the quantity, they rather make parts of it; that asks for responsibility and strength. Passer-by walk, they walk away from light and nature, finding shelter by grace.
The tree of life obliges to a decision, every crossroads flashing by. Terence Malick assumes they are two ways in life: the way of grace and the one of nature. The latter circles around souls, invading them without permission. If the ones finding peace in the arms of grace flee nature, this is because the natural collision is violent enough for them to deny the real selves they are forced to face. Third eye’s whispers might expose long forgotten scars.