(no subject)
This morning we are two of those that observe the movement of the leaves, the cyclical murmur of the first faces that march to work; two of those that watch the vagueness of whatever exists as if we were foreigners and it surrounds us so fiercely that also defines us as aliens. Only the fragile leisure of our imagination could associate this day with so many dispersed data and construct over the chaotic pile of debris a simulation of knowledge. It blinds us this magnificent emphasis of inventing histories, of granting sense. We never stop to feel the eyes, to hear the heart, the daily sensation of being, that does not give anything at all but receives light, like a gift. We walk by the garden uninhabited in the rain under a dream like memory. The day unfolds now as solid as the air that whips me saying that today in the dark silence of my steps we are two and bonded, recognizing it’s because of you I’m still walking.