PROBABLY

Tomorrow 

I'll probably see you again, and I won't be the same again. If I see you again. Conditional. I say probably, because we all change. In the blink of an eye, circumstance comes between the door and the foot. And if you take the trouble to go back there, you'll remember what I told you, about the unusual way in which they, the specters, the moments come to us in the same way. The energy passes through the crack of the window, it passes through in front of the eyes, it would not be understandable to say, or, if you did, you'd be lying to yourself. Like when you deny affection, because it doesn't suit you, because you're not prepared for the fight, the rapture of seeing yourself, probably, in front of the mirror. To deny the encounter in the face of the inmate you know. I will not reveal to you what I know. This is all I am talking about, which is a concrete case. Because you saw that density, without any difficulty, enter through the crack, tear without any bang and stand in front of you, and all that opacity that you saw round, taking on a new form, as if it were stretching legs and arms, as if it had a head and eyes, looking at you, stretching vertically, as if you understand that it can even pierce you and nothing much happens. The world is not shaken, life is reconciled, in the same way. Just don't pretend you weren't there. It's very Plutonian! Just like Jazz, which breaks all scales in the blink of a breath, insinuates itself before all who listen, and I have always heard, that this of listening is something very shallow, or like saying love and not feeling surprise, the longing that comes over your faces, the desire for prolongation, or the sweet aroma of spring, and I have always been inspired by the storms that announce the breaking of something. Let the seasons be shaken. Sometimes it's just from the moment you're in. 

Probably, you won't even be the same anymore. That new ideas and new ways of feeling the wind were born to you. Perhaps, new inspirations and new instruments, maybe strings and woodwinds from the east, maybe you have adopted a new animal, or a new way of dressing, or even a new me to dress in the future. A new way to burn the chrono you have left! That I know, from inside the dungeon, in a castle full of uninhabited rooms, that I have sought you out in all of them, to know about you. And in all of them, I found you in parts, as if you were just an old puzzle that I paused! (Oh, you could have been that, only that and nothing more than that)...

I'm sure, however, that it changed the original design, even the way you think about yourself and think about reality, but what I know that didn't change in you, I know because it stayed in me. That part you didn't know how to change. You could not do that. And neither do I. You stayed here, like the pictures of abandoned houses, which lose their color and join the webs of spiders, you stayed in small images of boats that they never leave the quay, because they are stuck in the cove, because the anchor that structured them to the bottom is stronger, because they do not struggle, believing that they are on the high seas. You'd probably say something like "that hair of yours" as if you were thinking out loud about the unfurled candles of yesteryear that you don't even want to see the shadow of. Or maybe you said, "I feel distressed" Or you could still say "you're nervous" or "I'm nervous", or maybe you even lack the words to say, house, mother, life, sigh, sigh, and your steps would continue to walk agitated through the whole house, into me, without realizing that you would already be inside, that house of yours, which you continued to inhabit like a ghost or a castaway,  the one that lacked the buoy, the courage, the rehearsal of arriving inside what you know at home, above, below, and after that, all perspectives would occur to you to scream that you woke up, or that it's all a dream, a nightmare or something in between and something else, in the tangle of days that you weren't and that you forgot that I would still be your windows and the attic,  the fourth, The bed and the table, the pots and pans, the corridor and the venus of your escapades, sometimes yes and sometimes no, where your past has stayed. And maybe it will surprise you if you hear my anchor heart, each song and storm moaning, trembling, being reborn and breaking with all the winters that have sat on me over the years and the others, to imprison me, to silence my longing. That I turned all the rooms of the house inside out, that I burst into the sea, just to tear out that anchor heart of the scream that has handcuffed me for so long, the blanket loaded with the wills of others, of blindness, of human slaughterhouses, of the illusory clandestine adventures that you insisted on living, in the contour of your face, in the burning of time, in the cuts he has imprinted on my face, on your confidence, and perhaps you will see me run away, break all the windows and doors and disappear. To break the migratory structures, the controversial feelings of our memory. Your photograph continues to frame my life, you are spent, me and photography, me and the daring to dive in and believe that the anchor will be released. Me and my stubbornness.

 I'll probably hear death, sitting at the kitchen table, like yesterday. Probably, I will tidy my mind and, imbued with the fire of the spirit, I will serve her the best wine, I will put my heart in a deep dish, and I will watch death enjoy her last meal. I'll probably sit next to her, and she'll probably look me in the eye and believe that mine will turn away. I'll play cards with her, and even though I know I'm losing, I'll keep the last trump card up my sleeve. She who fears not life, who has embraced the supreme father, who has begged for eternal sleep, who has longed for the beloved light, will never fear the other side. And when the last chimes of your evil disposition strike, I will put the trump card on the table, in the form of a prayer. I don't want one last cigarette, or the worn-out chorus of our ballad, ever I could ask for more time, which is of no use to me in your absence, I will make my request accordingly. I'll probably ask you to let me see you one last time, you'll probably make me feel free. A condemned person is never denied his last will. And in that last glimpse, she will step aside, the better to allow me the enjoyment of this final will. Say goodbye to the beloved.

It's probably dusk, you'll be distracted. Clueless between pain and emptiness, expectation and the cold of the illusion that corrupts itself. In a clear exercise, I will have my privileged view of you.  And since you do not count on me, you will probably be in a hurry to flee, you will hasten your steps, and your gaze, even if it escapes the light of mine, and opens the curtain of scarce time, you will allow yourself, even if a glance flees from you, or from us, and in that last vision, you will tell me everything about you, without uttering a single word. I can guess that you will be restless in the face of my passion. You will be sorry for your own choices and harvests, you will apologize, without ever opening your mouth, I will show you my unconditional love. 

You will probably then be able to confirm that I have kept you over the years, and you will smile again and again, because you will look at yourself in the mirror of the crystal clear waters, when you and I went, and then you will remember that you had dreams that have not yet come true. The trailer will close with the gift, in the higher octave of god. And you'll probably get goosebumps knowing that it will be the last time you'll see me. And you will probably have the firm certainty that time has passed me by and quieted you. Nonsense is born between pain and freedom. You will hear the music sticking to your chest, inside you my way of feeling it. You will realize then that I was a star of the dawn, I was a path and a staff, your house, your room, your bed, the moon that will insinuate itself through the heart, will probably be dark and late in the evening, you will probably see walls and obstacles destroyed, the ones that prevented you from speaking to me, that until then have clouded your vision, you will probably smile one last time, on request. And as likely as it is unpredictable, you'll realize that neither of us was left out in the other. That I continue to sit on the basalt rocks, on the highest mountain of your mountain range, I continue to gather berries and crown moldings by the alder tree. And, as surely as one and one are two, you will wake up from the dream that enveloped you in the mists. You will curse the worms that have eaten away at you, and you will see me in the distance, already in the dawn. You will settle your chest, you will walk through the straits, you ship, you will weigh anchor and finally, in a meekness of soul, with your hand on the helm, peace will fit you, like a glove, in your calmness and you will set me free. And to see you finally free from my love. And I will be the lism that held your emotions, that calmed you in the storms, that dematerializes when my liberation is fulfilled. That is probably the case.