1. My mother hates me! My father hates me! Oedipus screams to the stealthily silent Sphinx.
He scatters riddles like laurel leaves waiting to be braided into a playwright's crown. It is too grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.
His unconscious mind flies open like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky. Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat steadily to reach titanic heights.
Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus cannot know himself. Before the Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels, unexamined by his bleeding eyes.
2. Freud exults in triumph. Maternal love births eternal love: endless comfort and affection for the newly bloomed beloved.
Soon, comfort metamorphoses into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable, beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil. Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.
Jacosta embraces her son as her new living king, her husband's royal blood bubbling brazenly on the bitter road to Thebes.
His hands stained, Oedipus strives to transmute his trauma as our own. We become him when Freud deigns to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.
Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union with the mother, lethal rage against the father. Mourning Becomes Electra beckons to the wary second ***.
3. The Sphinx belies its own riddle: How can prophecy spring from the sculpted, smooth stone of these perfect *******?
Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded, action lies blinded by the ventricles of violence, the twisted telos of the mind.
Humans sin against the world, against nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****, mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.