Have you ever wondered why all the windows in Heaven were broken? Does anyone know if this wandering Earth will be found? Where the night is long. Where oblivion doesn’t hurt. And the digital tic toc of dawn. And the date, odd. Day 29, month 11, me 1.
It begins to snow in the secret heart of Europe. Celestial milk, snowflakes from God, wheat without more meaning than its physical characteristics, hyperreal. We are alive, now. It will be distressing to not be so later. Heaven and Hell are two enormous punishments for those that have been born on Earth and love their counterparts in History,
I don’t want to share anything with millions of souls pure or putrefied. I want the bodies that I loved. I want the conversations that I could and could not translate with our poor language, so silent, so Cuban. I want the brilliance of corneas, not an aura of salvation. I want the touch of fingertips. I will everyone, a lot. I will miss you a lot. It’s perfect.
Everything is late. Everything happens yesterday. We don’t know how to live in the present. This is also perfect.
It’s an explosion. Life is less than a dream, but much more intense for that same reason: life might be the ephemeral instant in which it seems we are either exhausted or ready to wake up. Then, in our sleep or in our wakefulness, life is what happened to you while you are busy doing other things.
We are in the second to last day of the second to last month and this is the second to last line, even though it is only for imitation.
I have a lot more to add but now I realize how perfect it would be to know how to shut it all up once more.
November 29 2012
