Out of Time

To K., M. and J.

It is only when we let go of ourselves, when the space occupied by our bodies doesn't suffice, it is only then that we become aware of the cruel nature of time, it presses against our chest like a knife, like a vest of the ungodly and the invisible, protecting from loss and oblivion everything essential, everything that cannot be remembered. Every moment of the hour signifies the madness, one feels like he wants to cut the flesh, to bruise it, to destroy the body, in order to let everything trapped within run free of its own accord, to reach for the essential in the shoulders and the arms and the hands and the lips of dew, to escape from the suffocating constrictions of the jackets but also of the houses, the coffee tables and the telephones, the will to surrender falls from the eye of the observer just like a waterfall trying to encounter along its passing, a gulf to embrace, the little caress of the rocks and the crystal finger tips of the algae and the sweetness of the night soaking the ice so completely so that it melts into the limb of a hill, coming closer to the water in a failed suicidal attempt, throwing itself overhead, dancing without feet and with one only melody - the absence.

It is only in this loss that we let go of the watches on the wrists and on the walls, the watches of the eyes and the palm of the hand, everything is so absolutely present, this presence so swiftly vanishing, dissolving unto itself, occupying all the space available in the universe until it can no longer be seen, it has swallowed the stars and the planets but also the pulsations of the stomach and the movements of the hand; that's how it must have felt during the Creation, free of sin and free of guilt, without anxiety, without the absence, without absconding or retreating, so completely free. Only in the most cruel moments of impatience, we're reminded in deliberate conspicuousness, of the gifts of Paradise, but without the innocence, we've been given our passions instead; we carry them through, offer them to our fellowmen are a gift, there's no visible world without them, there's no reason to despair, in the wait, that's where time is... Impatience is sinful, it's a dried up well, every moment of it, fixes anew the course of the waters, it's a bleeding tree of life. You begin wondering, you wouldn't know where to go afterwards, cling onto the idea that there's a home, in arm, or in a shoulder, but you're still looking for the keys even though the doors are slammed open before you, while the portico was set on fire, you wouldn't know where to run, but you're already inside, that's why it burns so badly in the eye, it's too late, you're already running out of time, it presses against your chest with the bad aftertaste of loss, but the essential, like the waters, will always flow in you, even when you change into an older skin or possess another well.