The final walk is the first run.

"My suggestion is to run", replied the device. It's been 6 hours, it no longer tries to spit out overly elaborate answers. It was my last resort, the antidepressants aren't working and my psychologist is a piece of some sofisticated nanomaterial I read about on science magazines 10 years ago; what's more, it's trained on just a couple of experimental therapies... Just seeing it puts me in a dark mood.

The weather looks rather likeable from the window, so I put on some comfortable clothes and give it a try.

I start to walk in the hope that my energy calls for some running, and after two kilometers I realize there are no people around. Also strange is that I haven't seen any bird or insect on my way. 

I enter a store to try to find a signal of some living creature, but there's no one around... At that point the dark mood starts to filter in, but I fight back. The running water in the bathroom, the flashing lights of the security cameras, the faint and distorted noise from a radio I couldn't find in my view... They aren't helping. I look around and realize that all the words and numbers on the products, tags and screens are in what seems to be an alien language, completely far from what any human symbol could resemble.

I run out of the store. "I could now stand depression, but not psychosis, please... Is it the next step? Is it? The next step of what?"

Outside is already night, only one street light remains, and against it a moth keeps trying... I feel joy just from the piercing sound of it's body against it, despite of it's sad nature. Then the sound stops. The moth doesn't fall down, it gets stuck into the light, and some rare mycelium-looking structure kind of absorbs it slowly, while the light fades with it. I feel no fear, sadness or joy, I just stand there, perplexed, amused.

When the light completely fades, my eyes trick me into some symbols in front of me, floating there, that read: "Told you".

A poem?

Little did I know 

that the source was transferable

that time was unmeasurable 

that language was magical 

 

Little did I know

that my role was unplayable

my love was unlimited

emotions desirable

Little did I know

that the line was distortable

the ground was unbreakable

space-time was permeable

 

Little did I know 

that my face was invisible

my name was forgettable

my voice was available

 

Little did I know 

that my mind was illogical

my body mechanical

my life was incredible

 

Little did I know

that the world was unstoppable

my thoughts were dystopian

my words were predictable

 

Little did I know

that the trip was one minute long 

the sun died some years ago

the south was the second north 

Little did I know

that all concepts were changeable

all meaning recyclable

this poem unfinish'd-

Untitled

I was looking for a bird in the sky. My eyes traced lines for my attention. My mind was in a playful mood. The flashes of light were entertaining. Behind me was my water home, waiting for my fall. Your voice from far moving my raft, in funny ways sometimes. I'm never bored, I'm never alone.

 

--

This tiny text was written in 2017, just a little bit before the voice in my mind (which lived in me for 9 years) ceased. I feel that this sprout from the overwhelming emotions the voice caused me that last year when it's origins were revealing themselves in talks and observations, and writing this felt at the same time like a release, a comforting hold, some freedom and resignation, both out of and into it.. This was undoubtedly helpful and felt pretty honest and warm, expressing both my vulnerability and psychotic state. I later erased it to mark my release from any link to that past, but now something reminded me of it and I put it up again. It's funny how I remembered word by word, but not the title; hmm... It was probably just "Untitled".

El arte de ser.

La penumbra marcada como zona de guerra, ¿contra quién o qué? Ni en la penumbra escapo, ni en el limbo pertenezco, ni en la claridad soy (¡y mucho menos!).

--

Acá se tiene que ser más listo que el lenguaje, que cuando queramos estar lo más cerca o lo más lejos, estemos las dos cosas al mismo tiempo: recorrer el mundo entero para llegar al punto más lejano de uno mismo, justo detrás de uno, y ahí, con suerte, encontrar ocurrido un choque, "repulsión" en su sentido puro, y al punto negativo que nos separa decirle: "Estas son las palabras para desaparecerte, para colarme con el otro, afinar sus circuitos, calibrar sus conductos para que me alcancen, para que sean míos y los míos suyos". 

En ese punto de más sabe (sin saber que sabe o no sabe cosas) ese vacío que el que los conductos de uno se vuelvan del otro no es más que una positiva (e inocente) expresión de algo que ocurre sólo negativamente: no es que se modifiquen ciertos llamados conductos, ni que se sumen dos seres, esas opciones requerirían una energía que no existe en el universo, la única vía es que solamente dejen de existir en su separación. Sólo en ese ejercicio el vacío desaparece, porque en realidad nunca existió, sólo era una especie de artefacto para poder movernos, ingenuamente, de nuestra eternidad.

Al vacío se lo pides y te lo otorga sin más, sin juicio, sin titubear. Es el premio por haberle dado una efímera existencia con tu observación y una eterna potencialidad convirtiéndote a través de él en tu observador, guardián, salvador, impulso, energía, real fuente de vida, que no está sólo arriba, ni sólo detrás, sino en cualquier lugar donde puedas verte en tu inmaterialidad.

❤️

 

Encounter.

 

MSC #56