Meeting

It is always the same recurrent feeling, one strip of all capabilities to convey any message, the most incredible spiritual numbness and dampness confused in a mist of jaded hazel and green, but altogether so glittering and rainy. In a way I feel it is the screaming voice of the present hunting me and soaking me in impossibilities, so that I can only lower my eyes and forget the rest of the world, just sink and swing without leaving my drunken boat, so entirely unaware of the consequences. A number of voices clash inside myself and demand more from me but I'm unable to move in the mud, to sooth myself at all... I imagine the mornings and their paintings, the day-dreaming of living under the spell of conventionality, the light of worldliness and endless conversations, struggles, titanic undertakings... but past the mild smells of compassion with myself and with that glowing shadow, at best I can find myself gathering the pieces from a broken conversation and filtering it for long enough so as to save myself from the ends that come with every time I stare into the lake of condemnation... the sulfur pours from my veins into a Stygia-like landscape of streets and noises, but in utmost loneliness.

The flights of the imagination cannot contain my exasperating silence, the abyss before me unfolding in the shape of encounters, in the shape of togetherness my mind feels ill-headed toward a dark alley that has become the only refugee, the shelter not from reality but of reality. I keep weaving my thread from one chance to the next, as though I weren't made for higher enterprises... but before the thick mist of geniality and God-questioning humour hides a certain longing that infringes me with questions asked by children, with a cunning desire almost revealing of a different logic, a passage of antinomies at the end of which I still can't gather myself on my own, so that I cite myself, repeat, spit, re-tell... as to discover some essence behind those frail curtains of daylight. I'm not becoming, simply awakening... everyday, to this newfound bitterness that slows the time to the point of turning into lullabies of formerly known creatureliness. I'm unable to speak, even about my own. Behind all the masks a certain voice showers me, it is identical with none of the acts but undoubtedly can be idenfitied with all of them.

Perhaps she's right after all, I'm wasting all my vital energy in one port... out of which I can only sink, but it is not altogether bad because I might sink in the togetherness of the world, of duality, of antinomy, of deflection, of un-pastness, of a shared obscurity... but even this is not for sure. My expectations about the world as are futile as my relentless trust in it, so that every negation is a deliberate channel of belief, the desire to undo the broken chain and fade away. But this disappearance is not at all objectable, while at the same time it remains impossible... because the overarching presence of those shadows glitters through the broad day light in order to remind me of myself, of that self I have ceased to trust for so long, indulging in simpler calculations that despite my good intentions always end with the same lack of interest, the same lack of remembrance, that skillful but murderous immanence of the mirror, the inescapable rationale of unreligiosity, of doubt, of uncomfort.

Maybe my luck will change another time, when I step out of myself... when I cease from this givenness, from this melody, from these sensibilities... but something tells me I rather be undone with everything than forfeiting the gifts of outsiderness, of melancholy, of thinking... but the thinking can no longer be set apart from the endless nights craving for the same distant object, from the letters I write, from the speculative jealousy, from the frustrated un-desire of the morning. I want to be so far away from it, I want to betray, to falsify... but this is impossible in theology, certainly in a theology that only has two elements, both loosen and forlorn. Both elements are free, and therefore, nauseating... sickly, nightly... unimportant without their context. These days will wane away one day, I don't know when, and it'll be perhaps the loss of the most beautiful broken mornings of my whole life, I want to look at it as necessary, albeit I'm unable to. Perhaps I'll quit before they end, but I know it's just too late, I can't. I'm in foul and I know it, no longer playing with fire but burning under it with the most resignated look in my face, I've given all what can be given, nothing was demanded... this isn't a surrender statement, rather an embracing to my failure. Some days my imagination runs free, even more than life.... I dream with those conversations, but eventually I end up being monological until a surprise comes from heaven, and the absolute joy they stir in me is only a knowing sign of my most absolute unhappiness and recognition of the impossibility, already a miscognition.
The silence breaks the walls, they fall upon me but I don't die. I mumble to myself, yellower than hay, trying to find that Western star, but it is more elusive than what I would like to say, because our age has stripped my message off any possible connotation. It can at best make a good phone conversation, half an hour in a cafe, sometimes even a long letter... then I return and fall back upon myself and feel so lonely that it's difficult to describe. The worst part is when the companionship and the theological theodicy to it all, can at best only accentuate how lonesome you're, in the company of the other. Everything blurs, disappears, loses form.... like myself. I expect with dread the next time, being so completely sure of my error, so convinced of it that the time is no longer important, it is like death... the most delightful of all expectations. But when it comes, I can never speak, I can at best tell a story and hope that I'll be understood, even if a little bit... and if that bit is enough, I can already leave.