Child’s gaze torn off, forgotten in some dirty, damp room after the first cry.
The basins still bleeding, and borrowed eyes. Pain.
I adapt to life, to that death-life, like a ghost,
locked away deep inside. Blind, resentful, deaf… almost forgotten.
A fogged-up glass separates me from the world. It hurts. I dirty it so I can’t see.
Uncertain steps blur fantasies and illusions painted with chalk. Pious lies become less and less pious.
Falls. The rigid body of a corpse is shattered. Zombie.
From the depths, a tear that doesn’t close and only dares to come out in dreams.
Deaf screams… smiles. Everything is all right.
Foreigner in my own life, wasteland without horizons, full of strange people, with their names and surnames. Even stranger.
Love in delay. Affections seeping through the cracks.
Distant… Nothing can accompany the wandering of a ghost.
Friends, childhood, moments… remain in the desolation of my own borrowed memory.
Living death. Flat land. I dry up… nothing but gray…
The immaterial, taking on substance. The blurred defining itself.
Life making its way like water seeping into a cave drop by drop. Waking up.
The wild soul screaming its freedom, the shoes shined of domination, to the side… over the faults, the fears, and speeches of lies. The first communion white shirt frayed over the naked body of a man.
Pain… pain of having been alive. Pain of tangles and chains of smoke… tearing with fury, the ghost’s robe.
From the grimace of those remains, from those dull bleeding sockets…
light comes out… ghost and being, being and ghost. Everything integrates.
I thank, I forgive… I forgive myself. I heal. It burns… I heal.
Your love… reflections in resonance. Memories of the present or primeval times, it doesn’t matter anymore. Fire. Love…
Dejavu is no longer doom.
No more hiding… leaving the bridge. The girl from the countryside…
In this life… No story, no eyes, no body…
– For Nati.