A rock waiting in the bottom of the sea, as a single flower that lives in the inhospitable top of some mountain knows that in the end I would not want to say anything of what I say. The truth is I wish I did not have to, and also I wish I did not know maybe and almost certainly that saying it would be pointless. But what can I do? I am here, between impotence and conviction. Knowing – and now saying – that from the day you were born you had been waiting to hear the music that is playing here, that music you know even though you have not found it, that is played by the soul and that is why it touches mine.
I do not re-read myself, from time to time I re-read the lives I travelled through, just as you look at the rear mirror before overtaking by the left, and what I see, I wish someone knew, is nothing but past, and what I feel is nothing but present, and it does not become more than the intention of one more moment conceived in which everything could become the way I wanted, an extreme convergence.
I dream of you coming, or that I may not hear your voice again, unable to express any definite possibility, fighting ghosts, ideas, thoughts, intuitions, and things like that. Tied to meanwhile, grabbed by my illusory freedom, burning what is left of my days accompanied by anguish and anxiety that can only be relieved by a source of hope, which was born precisely in that moment in which you were what I pretended, and even more, before the time in which distances of forms gained so much and so much weight, as it usually happens with daily things when you try to establish which absorbs which at a moment full of single gestures.
You are not here, you are with someone else, and nobody or everybody would know what I know about you. There’s mockery in not knowing how to take advantage of what you know, and there is ice in knowing how to. Humility shows up when you judge yourself responsible by not having what you want.
I would have to yield, I would have to go on not yielding ever again, I would have to do what I can, but being a spectator is also one of the possibilities I agree to. Without looking down, just imposing crystals before my eyes. Denying a way for reason, admitting to one, and then one thousand times, the powerful rivers of madness. Because I confess that even though my actions, all of them, are rational, in my eyes they are no more than manifestations of what may or may not be right only at the end of a movie, right at that moment in which nobody will be able to testify regarding the good or evil of the total sun of my actions and of all my inactions.