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The frozen innocence

I’m not sure how I walk. The heart beats just as valiant­ly as the day before and he seems to promise to be as brave tomor­row. I don’t know how the world is going, where the course of things is going.

My soul is hap­py, it is sad, frozen in this can­dor to want to under­stand the present, not to wor­ry too much while know­ing that it is in my inter­est to remain vig­i­lant. A good friend on Face­book has post­ed pic­tures of his inno­cent youth. I told him some­thing like “the eyes that have seen the world can stay pure if they per­sist in believ­ing in the real­i­ty of things.”

He thanked me, say­ing that it was very beautiful.

If this is so, as my poet­ry sug­gests, it means that this mys­te­ri­ous real­i­ty is drunk like hon­ey, strong like hemlock.

Inno­cence, the present, real­i­ty are abstrac­tions of the same fixed phe­nom­e­non. The first trace, the first birth, the imprint of all the imprints has undoubt­ed­ly been telling us for light-years that true and tan­gi­ble life is played out naked and motion­less, with naive and closed eyes, before the eye­lid of ourselves.

How­ev­er, say­ing that does­n’t pay the bills.

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