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.