This endless night, by the phone, with hopes of hearing some particular beloved voice; and by the chatting window, with hopes of reading the words of some particular beloved person. And my memory of a friend, long time ago, in a moment of heartbreak saying the surprising words of pain: "how hope can be this destructive!", he introduced me to the book "Sickness unto death", interesting logic, but... in this night, no philosophy, no literature brings to me the words I want to hear or read, those belong to the most beloved, absent.
One day, I might regret of this post, but, what the hell, I'm simply heartbroken! I've been seen in my town suddenly, unavoidably crying in buses, cabs, waiting lines, people's homes, anywhere the pain took me with my mind blank, in a surprising explosion of agony. Who am I to interpose between others and a pain that surpasses me? So no difference between don't being able to avoid crying in public, and declaring it in an unfamiliar blog. Simply heartbroken. Possibly soon will go back to show only half-finished cheap artwork. I might regret my unnecessary sincerity of today... the point that matters to me: how I overcome this night? Have done so much that became works of love lost, I've been feeling physically dying, literally dying, breathless in the floor trying to get air, for so many days. No help can come from others. And I don't want to punish myself or anyone, because I know I have no guilt, but anyway a stabbing idea comes in and out: "That was your last opportunity for true love". And I throw myself to the freezing floor looking for better air, but nowhere is air for me. No-one can help, everything is an escapism outside your pain in the heart, and you get worried by the wounds, if they will be hardening your heart, if they will change it. I don't want pity, don't want comprehension; I want my mind back, and my heart restored. Cannot use my mind, because my heart is drowning in its fluid. No-one can help. There's only one who can achieve a miracle. She is my beloved, she is unique. She is absent by choice, and not be back.
in this night, in this world
the words of the dream of the dead woman's childhood
is never that what one means
the native language castrates
the language is a knowledge organ
of the failure of all poem
castrated by its own language
that it is the organ of the recreation
of the recognition
but not the one of the resurrection
of something as a negation
of my horizon of Maldoror with its dog
and nothing is a promise
between the things able to be said
that is equivalent to lie
(everything that is possible to be said is a lie)
the rest is silence
only that silence does not exist
no
the words
they do not make love
they make the absence
if I say water: Will I drink?
if I say bread: Will I eat?
in this night, in this world
extraordinary silence the one of tonight
what happens with the soul is that is not seen
what happens with the mind is that is not seen
what happens with the spirit is that is not seen
from where it comes this conspiracy of invisibilities?
no word is visible
Alejandra Pizarnik, "In this night, in this world".
