51.

somos siempre lo mismo.
nada cambia. qué pretensiosa era. cuánta tonta [tanta] soledad.

keep going.


Writing for No Thing 

I wish I could become this, or that, which I am not. I whish I could turn myself into something else than this frantic scribbling day and night, to no one but the inner empty crevice where the sounds of my words reverberate, reverberate, reverberate.

I long for understanding: there are people, whom I cannot even grasp, whom I read in silence, as a witness of their mystery, as a witness of existence (that constant paradox that cannot be told, but experienced); there are people I would like to absorb, as if they were a stream, as if I were a sponge. Ridiculous as it appears, I wish so. Yet, impossibility arises and I become aware that I am echoing someone else’s music, whose? where from? It calls. It calls. It calls.

I am nothing but a drifting leaf, a petal in the wind, heavy, clumsy, blotted out by the deeds of distance, hello, can you hear me, hello, you are away, this is a deaf song, isn’t it? You are away, and you, and you, and you.

I miss.
I am missing.
I am nothing.
No thing.

Even in family, son and loving husband. Even among friends, those who inquire, those who hassle, those who soothe. Even in the crowd, I am wrapped in solitude, which is ominous, not just because it is my own but everyone’s. For I do not think I am the only idiot who is able to contemplate this occurrence: lots like me might be wondering now, about the same. The answer looms. (Again, don't let it come).

There are drops of insurmountable solitude all over the place, along the corridors, leaking through the walls. I can see them, I can touch them, I can sense them.
I am being.
I am.

(2003)