In the beginning we were breathing together, one from the other, as if each of us was the air of the other. In the beginning we didn’t know, everything was like a waiting, like the prediction of an intoxicating pleasure, as if we had restrained our craving for dreams and images expecting one that would cover all of them – special, overwhelming. Sometimes I think we were only waiting for a white light, that all we were looking for was the blindness and that this was the only one that could have convinced us. We were waiting to see each other until blindness. We were talking in silences. We were waiting and the words seemed to be floating, flying, jumping between us, I could touch them. They were the most real and alive words among all that we spoke. And all those who were watching us did not do anything but to see our conversations, word by word, syllable by syllable, sound by sound, words made of deafening images, noisy, painfully alive… as if… as if we had all heard the words by seeing them.
Then everything was turning into a crumble of emotions and we were delved in the euphoria of our moods. And each of us was trying to make the other into stone. Stay like this – I was telling you, leave me a single real crumble of you. Let me live with the impression that you will never have another look than this one, let me believe that your words will never know another roundness, let me feel that the hours will never try another contour but this one. And our time was vague and subjective, and it was a time made of plasticine, a time of foam that we would reconstruct each time that we were feeling overtaken by it. And then, when we would eventually come back to a real world, when we would strangle the seconds, when we would crush the linear minutes, when we would thicken the hours on paper, thirstily, brutally, until we scratched them, until they were bleeding, until the paper would peel off and the color would touch the glossy plastic of the covers, then… then we only wished but for everything to dissolve in a blinding white.
And we sewed the tips of our pointer fingers together and in the union of our hands we had hidden light. In the palm of my hand a sea of ink was resting, lazy, hungover, kissed on the half-opened eyes by a confused sky, unstable, imprinted by his hand. I believed in a future that only projected us into infinity and beyond the projection there was but a big and white patch, an unknown, like an end of our identity. When the words were fighting, noisy, when we only threw with cold and sharp glass crumbles, when the world started to shake and the walls were blackening, when the pieces of walls were falling and it was getting cold, when it smelled bitter and we were walking drunk towards the big patch of white, thirsty of humiliation and kneeling, when the edges were greeting us rounded in order to protect us and were bleeding our unsewn fingers, then… it seemed that everything was thrown from the skies just to be taken back. Then there were no saviors, nor decks for support. There were no hopes or caressing, and in all the stoves there were only piles of ashes. And any other proofs of affection were becoming disgusting, monstrous… appalling.
Then the words, broken, disinfected, carefully bandaged on the bleeding parts, were smiling asthenically at each other, as in an abdication, as if after their thinning now they were only looking to round back up, absorbing any crumble of light, any harmonious bonding, any ruined wall. We could never remember the sites of the scars, and in their place there were only symbols left. And, in the end, when we assessed the damage in an old and limping barrow, when we were gathering our smashed illusions, bleeding hopes, and carbonized dreams from the battlefield, we always found memories that brightened our day. And we started to know each other again, as if each time, following a conflict, we both died in order to revive only when we would meet again. And, both defeated, we were looking at each other surprised, in a noise of neutral words, how we survived this time again, like for the last time…
And outside night was falling in a sea of white…
This is an essay by a very dear friend of mine who unfortunately passed away this week needless to say too soon... but I guess I will just remember her as she was, given the fact that I still can't grasp or even imagine this... especially since it's hard to find a person that is so purely happy as she was... and so awed as everything that is beautiful or made her happy... She had a contagious jolliness and I guess I'll remember her every time I say something is preettyyy :)...
She had a really nice way of using words to express herself and always touched us when reading her essays... so another friend really liked this essay and she kept it. I translated it because... because I thought other people might like it...
