Shadow. Eurydice Says

I don’t know what’s gliding down my leg, no, it actually seems to come from below, working itself upward, has it reached the heel yet, the knee? Something gliding softly, thin, trickle-like, actually flattering, sort of. Yes, now! Some-thing’s penetrating, it hurts, something opened up in me, what is it?, I am completely open with you: I don’t know. It slid inside me, I am getting hot, hold it, I have the feeling I have to throw off some ballast, clothes? Something’s flowing, maybe I will no longer be able to work at the stove or on the manuscript I just started, which came out of me so smoothly before. Yes. Maybe everything was working too smoothly. My writing flows as well, that’s how it feels to me, you know, whereas my husband sings. He runs on a soundtrack all his own. That made him famous. Before he started to sing, silence was something grand, sacred, now silence no longer exists; he pierced the silence with his singing and destroyed it. I remained rather silent. I write, should anyone be interested. It works like this, you see: liquid flows from my pen, it flows onto a white sheet of paper, I am leaking. My walking, it came to a stop, my secured existence is coming loose, I feel as if I were just flapping about—no, away from myself, as if I had no more joints, as if my consciousness were out of joint too, no more hinges that would allow it to move: I can’t have what I want and I want what I can’t do: write. My walking shakes the earth, or is it the stomping of Mother Earth from down below I feel. Is she trying to throw me off? I have nothing to counter it with. Something clicks as I look at this landscape, something’s coming to my mind, but nothing will come out of my pen, my pipeline to life anymore. Yes, his pipe still functions somehow, it’s working. His pipe works. His myth has been created already, it can’t be destroyed anymore, he can destroy himself, but it can’t be destroyed, his balls are ringing all over the world; that singer, he’ll sing something in a moment, he’ll sing something with his group, but also alone, no young man such as he would ever be without a band. I stomp on the earth, it is like a sanctioned sexual act, wedlock unlocked. What do you think you are doing?, no one says that anymore. Anything goes, but at the same time it seems there might be sanctions or something against the stomping we are doing together. Increases the thrill. Nothing is verboten. My pipe is leaky, but so is his. Otherwise nothing would come out of him. But I think he wants it that way. It hurts, I think some kind of poison is running, I have to relieve myself, I am wearing too much, I have too much to bear. Now the question is: Do I get to be a shadow, or do I stay as I am and cast off the shadow? No, the shadow casts me, I become a piece of shadow, and pass myself to the shadows. My head is spinning and I throw something off, dead weight. So there. I thought I cast off something and suddenly the waste is me, who must stay behind. A crackling something whose clock has stopped, who doesn’t know what to do with herself. Emissaries are coming, yes, now I recognize them, to discuss with me the future set-up of my life. Is this where you want us to put the sofa, and the table over there? This is where I will have to settle, shadow among shadows, no more trees, no bushes. We shadows have to live off ourselves and stay by ourselves. We should make more of ourselves, but we don’t do it. I am already behind my potential, and now I even stay behind myself. I am no longer...