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A doormat and my dreams

My looks, my many blows in the light, offer me no answer. I thirst for transmutations, indefinable experiences. I seem to possess as much imagination as during my youthful flights of fancy. Still, this Saturnian time in my sixties quickly dissolves its interest, even its course.

I am there observing things, silently soaking in them like a jellyfish attentive to the food that clings to its strung arms. Am I disappearing, melting into a black hole of wisdom or silence? Is knowledge a word or a secret without words?

When I am among people, when I am dealing with this or that one, anguish becomes sugar-coated with alcohol. When I slide my hand over the fur of a cat, I hear with my fingers the hum of life. When I return home, focusing at a Twitter account over fast fireflies images, I feel the dryness of old wounds, the youth now being just a pulsion belonging to other smartphones.

Life, full and whole, is within me and is without me. I can live for hours observing the starry configurations of my sick comrades or of the starry politicians. The course of time is slow when you stick your tongue in it. Nothing happens, nothing is created, everything is frozen, metal, and flesh in a destiny that allows as many variations as there are uncertainties.

I am always able to express the beauty of the world. Still, I wonder what the point of doing so. Life is a sweet candy that damages one’s teeth. It is the ransom of happiness or comfort.

Photographing the doormat on my door and turning it into a methane sun. Surely somewhere, in a region too far away from the universe for me to imagine, such a star is blowing up, with magnetic storms as imaginative as my wildest dreams.

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