Absence in our path
Coming toward parts of oneself one doesn’t know
Inevitably, with the day I finally discern between my hollows and my bumps. Inevitably with the revealed contours I accept the darkness that comes before the light and also the darkness that straight after swallows it. I move a step at the time, often with joy, rich in the knowledge accumulated with the years, the wrinkles and the scars .
If I have left, it is for there is no place where to stay, except, with no certitude, the death. If I go over my self, it is for the others too are someplace else. I leave to the night and the dreams the illusion of a better past.
So I trace in words and lines, in arcs and concepts, those paths as pebbles comforting my backyard’s sights, when the way is ahead and today it is under my feet. I assemble and reassemble what I may have scattered and if sometimes the road seems familiar, it is for it needed to be drawn, deepened, understood.
I go toward distant horizons, that move away as I approach. I come toward parts of myself I don’t know. The obstacles are internal, especially when they materialize in the another’s features. He is me, infinitely, an unknown me, vanishing only when I recognize him.
This absence of path is the outrageous freedom to go in the unknown and the void, and to fill it with oneself, without expectation nor recognition.