Why do we live, why do we die?
The day when life carved Loss into our souls
and since then, we can only feel it,
we can only scream it in the silent violin.
SOS to the Universe, to another world,
to someone who doesn’t have his feet on Earth.
Life! Life!
Remember them!
Today I asked myself the following question:
Can I create a thought?
One, that’s it, now
let me try
right now, let me create a thought:
Hmmm…
I fail.
I can claim
and that’s what I do every day
it’s so easy
it’s my default state
I can pretend that I am
the initiator
the creator
the inventor
the author
of thought,
and to all
decisions and actions,
the judge of the past
and the planner of the future,
I can keep pretending
that I,
this awareness, this identity that defines me
which appears every morning
and disappears when sleeping
without me having a word to say,
that I have control
that I am the master
the owner
of thought,
thought made sandwich
by two worlds
an external one, full of senses
and an inner one, heavy with emotions.
Or I can stop pretending,
maybe it would be better if I detach myself from the thought,
of the illusion that I am the initiator,
to look at thought as it passes by me, but not through me,
to take off my thought when entering the play of consciousness, to leave it outside, at the door
but I’m afraid, it’s a big difference
between being an actor on stage or a spectator in the theater.
I’m afraid that without illusion emotion does not exist,
and without emotion consciousness does not exist,
and without consciousness the world does not exist
and without the world I do not exist.
Ah illusion, necessary condition for me,
I choose you and
I continue to live
one thought at a time
until it disappears
where? In the air? Or around a corner?
and the thought reappears
from where? Around the same corner?
and disappears again
and it reappears
and that’s how I keep it,
until bedtime.
And don’t forget to ask yourself a question:
Can I create a thought?
I painted the water
I wrote the fire
I read the earth
I danced the wind
and I sang the sky
and in the sky, I walk in bad luck,
wash my right shoe in water from cloud
I take it off to clean it better
and drop it in the cloud below me,
with one leg dressed and the other undressed
out of shame I hide in my hat, it becomes magic,
and now on the roads of fantasy pass stories with fairies and dragons,
fairies with two souls
dragons with five heads,
I have wings to fly
I have the strength to lift fifty times the weight of the sky
to be able to regenerate lost parts of the soul,
I see my reflection in the butterfly and the caterpillar smiling, one under the antennae, the other under the moustache
in the grapes, which fill all the nooks and crannies, a few ripe ones also jump out at me
in the orange that peels off its skin
in the table that laughs with splashes of honey
in the half-empty glass that must give what it lacks the most.
I watched the years go by
In reverse order
On a trip to my childhood
In the country, at my grandparents, and in that room
With a high table, two weak chairs,
With a short bed to jump in,
I’m a country kid now.
It didn’t come anything out of my mouth, not even sounds,
Not even words,
Not even thoughts from my head,
Just a hiccup of joy.
It smells in the room,
The smell of plums, greens and apples from the garden,
The plum branch rides a breeze
Through the open window,
Insects quarrel in the room,
I brought them old grass from the barn
And I made them a straw bed.
Mosquitoes punish me
They keep me awake,
And laugh about it,
Under the pale light of the stars.
I’m in bed counting the number of mosquitoes on the ceiling,
They and I have a pillow in common,
How many pillows did I crush on the ceiling?
The darkness doesn’t scare me
The spider in the corner doesn’t scare me
When I’m in grandma’s room,
The room that appears, then disappears,
I’m half inside and half outside,
Memories, fragments of memories
In a puddle of memory
Increasingly dry,
I drink from it because I’m thirsty,
Like the cow I was pushing
Every morning to graze,
To drink her milk, in the evening,
From the udder milked by rough hands.
I drew my grandmother’s face on paper
Which have been lost,
I drew my grandmother’s face in my memories
Which have been deleted.
When parents become grandparents
And grandparents become earth,
When the room becomes empty
And the house becomes earth,
When yesterday becomes years
And memories drown in time
As if they never existed
Do you remember them?
See, that’s why I was afraid.
I am legs
I am torso
I am arms
I am neck
I am head
I am eyes
I am tracheae, and bronchi
I am lungs, and heart
I am red blood cell count
I am higher or lower hemoglobin
I am oxygen
I am white blood cells
I am antibodies
I am trillions of cells
I am body.
I am thumbs
I am not tails
I am runner
I am sweat glands, and heat exhaustion.
I am mass
I am weight and body type
I am hair, shorter, finer, and less heavily pigmented
I am follicles on top, underarms and some other area.
I am teeth
I am dental formula
I am 2,1,2,3 over 2,1,2,3
I am crowded with some wisdom at the ends
I am crowns
I am implants over the missing ones.
I am chromosomes
I am two sets
I am 23 each
I am XX
I am XY
I am thousands of genes
I am DNA.
I am zygote
I am embryo
I am fetus
I am birthed from the woman’s body
I am newborn
I am infant
I am child
I am teenager
I am young, and mature adult
I am old.
I am vegetarian
I am carnivore
I am vegan
I am dietary patterns
I am GMO, and food science.
I am genetic similar but unique
I am adapting to a variety of temperatures, humidity, and altitudes
I am surviving, weeks without food, days without water
I am blood type
I am cranial features
I am eye color
I am hair color and type
I am height and build
I am different diet
I am exercise, and sleep pattern.
I am nervous system, central and peripheral
I am self-aware in the mirror
I am senses
I am subjective views of existence
I am time
I am mental
I am cerebral cortex
I am thought, and reasoning
I am abstraction
I am perception
I am learning, and problem solving
I am attention.
I am emotion
I am cognitive
I am behavior
I am model
I am social
I am moral, or not.
I am motivation
I am driving force
I am action
I am positive, and negative
I am language
I am speech
I am new and complex ideas
I am conflict.
I am structures
I am tools
I am technology
I am intelligent
I am productivity
I am increased population
I am in tropical rainforests, arid deserts, cold arctic regions and polluted cities
I am ignorant.
I am intimacy
I am bond
I am hierarchies
I am love, ecstasy, jealousy
I am strong emotions
I am admiration
I am joy, hate, envy
I am sorrow
I am neural function and dysfunction
I am social order and disorder.
I am restrictions
I am religious beliefs
I am social customs
I am cultural norms
I am war and peace.
I’m only human.
I am
with muscles,
with bones.
I ask
What is the meaning of life?
What is the meaning of living?
I look around, it is pitch black
I ask
What is the meaning of death?
What is the meaning of dying?
I am
with no muscles
on the bones.
I ask
Who am I…6 feet underground?
I am
with no muscles,
with no bones.
I ask
Who am I…to die forever?
The dream is not dead.
The girl’s dream is in a train station
Where the train stops
And people are coming down.
The girl raises her voice to her mother and shouts “I have a dream”
The mother with worries and a tiring job
With various disappointments and empty feelings
She remembers about her, about her dream
She wants to tell her, yes, but she can’t
She just stays silent.
The girl raises her voice to her father and shouts “I have a dream”
Father molded by the necessity
To adapt to the times
To put food on the table, to have money to pay his debts
He wants to tell her, yes, but he can’t
He just says, life is hard, no more dreaming.
The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old.
The girl raises her voice to life and shouts “I have a dream”
The years go by, the girl becomes a woman
The train station has closed
Surrounded with barbed wire
Broken windows with wooden boards
Thistles like walls
Padlock on the door
The train doesn’t stop
People don’t come down anymore
Only the woman, tries to remember
The lost dream, like a forgotten password.
The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old
Not on the deathbed.
The woman raises her voice to the sky and shouts “I have a dream”
She triggers the alarm signal and gets off the train
She pulls up the thistles with her bare hands
Throws the barbed wire
Breaks the window boards and kicks the padlock off the door
Opens the train station
With her last breath.
The dream is not dead
Not at 10, not at 20
Not at 50, not at 70 years old
Not on the deathbed
Not at the morgue.
Where the body lies.
Happy without hugs
Smile with a mask
Free when fear around
Love six feet apart
Normal when abnormal
Find the inner strength
Imagine a tomorrow
Start over again.
Believing in this year is a difficult road to walk.
When a wine glass steps on the barrel
The wine is screaming red in the darkness of the mind
And it lights a torch for the wolves in me
Because the night is long and the dawn is far.
The beasts multiplied in my mind
The howling screams, tells me to run
I’m howling myself, with a red tongue,
At the shore of the swamp of wine.
A wine glass, lost its leg, has my fingers as crutches
Pages of songs braided in wine plaits
In my arms, I hear my barrel mumbling
I am empty. Has the dawn come yet?
I had petals, many petals
Red and fascinating
I laughed.
One day a thorn grew on me
I denied.
One day I dropped a petal
I blamed myself.
And my thorns grew
I got angry.
And my petals fell
I isolated myself.
One day the last petal fell
I accepted
I was the red rose.
