The words called, they were looking for you.
My actual inhaler — when at its best, the world sneaks the art out of your skin. My need of fresh air, then, urge of another kind, family cards from another mother, not your typical prayer.
Tell them I was busy, busy for so long; they were my pantheistic God: all around me, I was blind to them.
If I was an animal, I would be a word. My sound would be a consonant, a hard one, just to make sure I break the scars of silence.
My form would be a font, an elegant one, graceful lines, but with a big bass. Harmony was always, ask me, about the bass.
Between words and letters, the big blanks are deadly — guilt, sepia of my life album, but the guilt of existence, the most pitiful and whiny of them all. Crying its own miniature.
Alors, les mots éveillent, m’allument, scintillent mon filament. 1 I found light, they all say, and they actually keep the human thread bare hands on, because the light is never just one, there is light for everyone, wave and particle, curve and stop, vowel and period, duration, time and eternity.
This is the story of Samuel: woken from his sceptic sleep, he hears the Voice.
The other morning, 7 am, barely ready to awake, I hear a line, ushered but ambiant, somewhere from my right side after the mattress. Between dream and audition, but certainly neither of the two. “Speaking is not your best, so put it down in writing.”
It was sometime ago, April 2016. Nineteenth morning, maybe. Thirty-six hours after discovering the relief of my vow. Surrender and faith, to the Other — I was given one last chance to escape my cosmic singularity. The succion of my own black hole.
The words called, and I abre los ojos.
Everything in its right place.
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