It has been a long time since I last wrote with my own voice, not necessarily sheltering me from anything but taking certain discreet steps of distance into common places, into varieties of understanding and fleeing from the absolute voids of endless chains of thoughts. Life seems to be happening so far away from me, on the fringes of something that contains me and yet it does not; the diminishing of the risk comes always at the price of a certain loss; foreign countries begin to unfold in manifold ways, geographies of time that contain the history and story of love, endless reckless topic, cleaned from its religious safety belts and thrown into the world with as much as passion as we can derive from the simplest possibility to live in the world. There is absolutely no bout of madness in it all, everything seems to gain a sharper focus that makes language very difficult to control, surfacing from the bottom as a language much bigger than words and worlds, it is rich with quotidiane images ridding on lapses of time that contain the order of promises that we encounter in the simplest human exchanges.
We might be utterly changed by the world and we as well might not; the works of art just like the works of love and thought (which fall under the same rubric always) are not property, they are free to themselves once we have set their forces into the world, their after effect is unhampered by our willingness to hold the present in a vase and safekeep it for warmer, happier mornings. This inability is what best expresses our freedom, the ability to navigate through the empty spaces and land in ports as distant as twice the equator, letting ourselves carried away sinfully with the wind, filling the empty spaces with massive rocks decanted from memory and from the simplest motions of streets, glasses, cheeks, jackets and pen notes. I feel at the edge of this physical willingness to loose, the poet always had in mind something better than what he is actually writing, he fears the loss of his own expression at being subsumed in the reality of people whom we tend to love from near and far. I feel inside this storm, this beautiful storm of encoded messages that I have thrown unto the world without deciphering them myself, they come in in all these new names that have appeared from nowhere and taken real spaces in blocks of paper that lie ahead of me, half written or awaiting in are to be written, less bloodied, less curtailed, like when you write a novel, you shall want to kill somebody, your hero perhaps, but he outlives you in mad stubbornness, he outlives the waters as they passed above the level of the lips; he learns how to live with little oxygen and then you feel refreshed, a waterfall upon you, in the powerlessness of this destruction which you are trying to cause and that the reality has proven unlikely, and yet lovelier than you thought.