Slowly, time goes by, swallowing every second as the last one, while I hear it drain, dripping, from the rest of my life.
I remember when I thought I had all the time in the world, for planning my life, make mistakes and be right before going wrong again. An invisible, infinite line of miscalculations and wise moves that would magically turn, with time, in memories, remorse, joys.
But, one day, time quickened before my eyes for an instant, the line reaped by the impact of three tons of out of control iron hitting my frail and small body. I saw all the route of my line, my rope with it’s knots and loose threads, when my eyes lost all capacity of seeing anything.
Time flied while unknown hands tried to revive me, while foreign voices tried to bring me back. I took a grip on those hands and voices, the world suddenly changed into a whirl that carried me far, very far away, at vertiginous speed. I used all my will for not allowing myself to be swallowed by that unstoppable force, holding the last knot of my life’s rope.
The whirl eased up and time stopped, expectantly, in those white wastelands in which I found myself, my body turned into an unmoving mannequin while my mind and my soul asked each other what in hell had happened.
It’s been a long time since I’m here, hidden in some unknown place of my being, trying to get back to the world, to remember again how to open my eyes, how to spell a word, the science of moving a single muscle. And, in the while, time goes by, inexorable.
I have the feeling that I’m running out of time. I feel the whirl getting closer, it still looks for me so it can finish it’s job. I hear barely familiar people crying, speaking to me, looking for me. They’ve been doing it for a while. I would want to answer, but they’re always too far, my voice gets lost in the void and theirs in the wind.
I notice a somewhat known hand that covers mine, and in my heart springs the hope that maybe it would be a new knot that could help me to keep on spinning my rope. I feel the warmth, the faith, the courage. I try to get a grip on that hand, but it’s just too late, there’s no time, the whirl gobble me up and I don’t have even enough time as to grief it’s lost. I’ve crossed beyond the end of the line, the rope left behind, enveloped in distant mists.I’m going back to the home that awaits for me there, where time doesn’t exist.
7 Dec 2008
19 Oct 2007
You go
The chains with which I tried to tie you to me weren’t enough, you broke them with the will of the one who wants to be free, leaving me behind with that heap of broken reasons I thought would stop you from going.
I’m selfish, yes, I am, because even when I crave to believe that you will be happier going towards your dreams, to your personal mission in this weird, incomprehensible life, I can’t help but regret they moving you away from me.
I want your happiness, as long as I can help you reaching it.
You tell me that this it’s not a goodbye, just a see you later. And I give you the twisted smile I can only manage to hint, trying to believe you for my own sake, so many endings in a not so long life left me the impression that that’s the end, after all, an end, an ending story that would never be able to be the same when resuming, if so.
I try to be strong, insensitive, I keep cheering you up in the preparations of your departure while my heart turns into an oh so heavy stone that sank me more and more in that sea of retained tears in which I try not to drown. Every hitch turns into a disappointment to you, into a hope that dares to born in me.
It’s hard to find the middle point, sometimes I reach it and it slips away again between my fingers, maybe my greed the one that make it run to hearts more comprehensive than mine.
You go, I stay. You, the new, me, the old and safe thing, two extremes condemned to constantly move apart for not destroying one another. They speak truly when they say that farewells are always worse for the one who stays, the one who goes does it with a luggage full of dreams, of lazy promises about future, of expectation before the new world to meet, the new life that maybe could be found. The one who stays it’s always too much scared as to pack and leave the house forever, and the fear accompanies some kind of resentment, the syndrome of the abandoned who is not able to abandon, and the luggage always weights too much, so many neatly folded memories, the crave to grasp something tangible weighting plumber-like in the soul, preventing any chance to take a single more step.
We cry when someone leaves, when someone dies, when they get lost of our way. But we don’t cry because we miss that someone, quite the contrary, it’s all about the feeling of being left alone, of the world spinning without us being able to stop it, the time walking it’s endless road and nothing we can do to stop it.That’s it, you’ve gone and I stay, talking with the ghost of your presence, with the emptiness of your absence, recalling all the things we shared, and feeding the hope that one day, maybe so soon, we could share something more. It’s the only thing that makes me smile while I cry staring at the loneliness that awaits to me in the shape of your empty room.
I’m selfish, yes, I am, because even when I crave to believe that you will be happier going towards your dreams, to your personal mission in this weird, incomprehensible life, I can’t help but regret they moving you away from me.
I want your happiness, as long as I can help you reaching it.
You tell me that this it’s not a goodbye, just a see you later. And I give you the twisted smile I can only manage to hint, trying to believe you for my own sake, so many endings in a not so long life left me the impression that that’s the end, after all, an end, an ending story that would never be able to be the same when resuming, if so.
I try to be strong, insensitive, I keep cheering you up in the preparations of your departure while my heart turns into an oh so heavy stone that sank me more and more in that sea of retained tears in which I try not to drown. Every hitch turns into a disappointment to you, into a hope that dares to born in me.
It’s hard to find the middle point, sometimes I reach it and it slips away again between my fingers, maybe my greed the one that make it run to hearts more comprehensive than mine.
You go, I stay. You, the new, me, the old and safe thing, two extremes condemned to constantly move apart for not destroying one another. They speak truly when they say that farewells are always worse for the one who stays, the one who goes does it with a luggage full of dreams, of lazy promises about future, of expectation before the new world to meet, the new life that maybe could be found. The one who stays it’s always too much scared as to pack and leave the house forever, and the fear accompanies some kind of resentment, the syndrome of the abandoned who is not able to abandon, and the luggage always weights too much, so many neatly folded memories, the crave to grasp something tangible weighting plumber-like in the soul, preventing any chance to take a single more step.
We cry when someone leaves, when someone dies, when they get lost of our way. But we don’t cry because we miss that someone, quite the contrary, it’s all about the feeling of being left alone, of the world spinning without us being able to stop it, the time walking it’s endless road and nothing we can do to stop it.That’s it, you’ve gone and I stay, talking with the ghost of your presence, with the emptiness of your absence, recalling all the things we shared, and feeding the hope that one day, maybe so soon, we could share something more. It’s the only thing that makes me smile while I cry staring at the loneliness that awaits to me in the shape of your empty room.
10 Sep 2007
I search...
I’m searching for a flat with views to the stars, in the neighbourhood where all the skies are blue and the grass looks greener than in other places I saw in this trip I embarked on in the conviction that
I look for a residence at the depths of the abyss, for getting comfort in feeling the sensation that I would never hit bottom again, always just looking above until I find a staircase that could ascend me to the apartment that
I search in the middle of the desert, where the landscape it’s eternal and mutable at the same time, a place in which trying to find the balance between frozen nights of loneliness and burning hope days, all this while
I search a castle in the bottom of the ocean, where everything changes constantly and the tides comes and goes, where water and sky seem to be the same thing to stare at while
searching a shelter in the middle of those storms in which the sky breaks above me, where to dance with lightning bolts without ending deadly hurt, and yelling with the thunder the roaring of my wrath, something I always wanted since I
search for a hut lost in the mountain of nothingness, nobody around to remind me human cruelty, just the cruel Nature around, the only one I can stand since I
search asylum in someone’s heart, for sleeping there rocked by a warm and constant beating, would it be, maybe, that
I search a hiding place where dead would never find me, nor would sickness and fear? Could be, that, or simply
I search the home of the answers to all that things I always wanted to know, the place where old forgotten gods await for being remembered, and where they whisper their secrets. Maybe they would tell them to me if they knew that I
search a room at the end of the world’s hotel, a place for resting while watching how everything ends for starting over again, in never-ending cycle. I have a vision of the new opportunity, of the beginning from zero, a vision in which I search
to lay in a bed of that hospital able to heal my soul’s wounds, I have too many now, and in which an comprehensive doctor won’t take me for a madman if I tell him that
I’m searching for the heart of darkness, a complete night that would allow me to see my own light, the one that enlightens me whenever I fall in despair and
search for the silence and coldness of a crystallised tent in a glacier, the little warm that I still have making me something special in the middle of all that cold, the chance to feel something unique, and thus to remember from the depths of my oblivion that
I search for my place in destiny’s line, in people’s eyes and in the mind of some lost angel who would take compassion on me, he could whisper to my ear if I am right or I am wrong believing that I just
search for a caravan at the edge of a cliff, enjoying the constant sensation of being only mine the decision of jumping off or keeping my feet on earth, something to spend my time when trying to convince myself that no, I don’t
search to live in the Northern Lights, staring at the earth from above and the space from below, thinking in a middle point from which maybe I won’t ever get where I intend to go, that stop I
search fearing that, maybe, I would die in the way, but, whatever, in my defence, I could always rise my head proudly, knowing that, at least, I search.
I look for a residence at the depths of the abyss, for getting comfort in feeling the sensation that I would never hit bottom again, always just looking above until I find a staircase that could ascend me to the apartment that
I search in the middle of the desert, where the landscape it’s eternal and mutable at the same time, a place in which trying to find the balance between frozen nights of loneliness and burning hope days, all this while
I search a castle in the bottom of the ocean, where everything changes constantly and the tides comes and goes, where water and sky seem to be the same thing to stare at while
searching a shelter in the middle of those storms in which the sky breaks above me, where to dance with lightning bolts without ending deadly hurt, and yelling with the thunder the roaring of my wrath, something I always wanted since I
search for a hut lost in the mountain of nothingness, nobody around to remind me human cruelty, just the cruel Nature around, the only one I can stand since I
search asylum in someone’s heart, for sleeping there rocked by a warm and constant beating, would it be, maybe, that
I search a hiding place where dead would never find me, nor would sickness and fear? Could be, that, or simply
I search the home of the answers to all that things I always wanted to know, the place where old forgotten gods await for being remembered, and where they whisper their secrets. Maybe they would tell them to me if they knew that I
search a room at the end of the world’s hotel, a place for resting while watching how everything ends for starting over again, in never-ending cycle. I have a vision of the new opportunity, of the beginning from zero, a vision in which I search
to lay in a bed of that hospital able to heal my soul’s wounds, I have too many now, and in which an comprehensive doctor won’t take me for a madman if I tell him that
I’m searching for the heart of darkness, a complete night that would allow me to see my own light, the one that enlightens me whenever I fall in despair and
search for the silence and coldness of a crystallised tent in a glacier, the little warm that I still have making me something special in the middle of all that cold, the chance to feel something unique, and thus to remember from the depths of my oblivion that
I search for my place in destiny’s line, in people’s eyes and in the mind of some lost angel who would take compassion on me, he could whisper to my ear if I am right or I am wrong believing that I just
search for a caravan at the edge of a cliff, enjoying the constant sensation of being only mine the decision of jumping off or keeping my feet on earth, something to spend my time when trying to convince myself that no, I don’t
search to live in the Northern Lights, staring at the earth from above and the space from below, thinking in a middle point from which maybe I won’t ever get where I intend to go, that stop I
search fearing that, maybe, I would die in the way, but, whatever, in my defence, I could always rise my head proudly, knowing that, at least, I search.
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