Each season which is the hours brings its share of discoveries. I too often forget the passage of time. I stop thinking I’m moving. I have succeeded, as an emperor, in establishing my influence through past actions. I possess the shy strength of a stubborn fighter.
There are also longer seasons, which include hours and weeks, which also swallow years. Then, with fatigue, like waters hitting the cliff, I wake up again in the lunar night of my soul.
As a teenager, I used to write river letters to a friend. As a young adult, I became interested in magic and poetry. Then there was the great season of experiences that it would be too selfish to tell here. At most, I can think that I bathed in it, lost, intoxicated, then rediscovered it.
Now, the wheel seems to be turning a little bit more. The moon reminds me of the order of emotions that always lie dormant in me, faithful, insistent like a crab. I cannot move away from symbols, light, and shadows. I am made to live in amazement, to submit to the happiness of the seasons.
I can only become a master of my destiny by submitting to it. This is a great paradox, the great illusion?
Can we trust the poets?