THE SEA OF BRAHMA

 

I walked around the house, in the back yard, in the beech, I left through the portal with difficulty. The wood is perra, scrapes the stone pillar on the ground. There are days when I just want to knock everything down in my path, as if it were a tornado, keep walking and on my return, not find this place anymore, where I have been searching, without finding, for faith in myself, in the day after tomorrow, that I don't know if there will be sun or even tomorrow, that I don't know if I will see the sea again or,  instead, i will crawl to the banks of the nearest stream. I see the fruits being devoured by the earth as they ripen, I see the animals among the grasses devouring their remains, I see the leaves disappear by the first autumn winds, and the rains wash away everything, licking the remnants of summer, and make room for all the old fallen leaves, and I have also seen the season intermingle and bring new flowers and shoots and the tense sky crumble into a thousand drops, relieving ourselves in the openings all. I've been walking around myself, watchful, sensing what's going to come and I still haven't decided what I need most, if my freedom or to see all this servitude to which I don't see the end falling, without shadows, or adornments or more postponements, or if I push myself for another sunset or give up,   Just as some give up who, without committing suicide, allow themselves to die, who abandon the temperance of seeking faith in themselves and surrender to the darkness that exists in their own lives. Hope is still a girl's dream that I carry like a son inside me. 

I walked around all my boxes, god, so many useless boxes, where I keep all the items of who we were, and the light makes these moments difficult, because I realize that they have already happened, that they really existed and that they made me who I am, I find the traces of the faith I had, I turn off the lights, afraid that it will not be enough to take me to the sea. And I ask myself why I don't throw it all away, why I don't carry those useless boxes into the trunk of the car and open them close to the waves, so that they can take them, so that they can dissolve the photographs and letters, everything that I bring inside, of what we were, of what we could not be, of the moments and episodes that stuck in me everywhere scratches and grooves that no time has eaten. I have found my amulets, and I have no size or strength, I am only wandering and weariness, and I never understand what binds me here, if these are the days, if life, if tiredness, if faith spread and fractured among our photographs. I could never collect it all on my own. I spread out the books and imagine the most beautiful bonfire I would make if I were allowed to. That's what I would do, I would immolate all the memories inside the books, all the expressions that chained me to one more day, one more year, a whole life in a more than less one that I forced myself to. Why did I dwell on other people's problems, trying to remedy their problems and not mine? Why didn't I focus my healing gaze on my raw wounds and try to soothe the ills of others? Why the hell do we give birth to empathy before we practice it with ourselves, who are worthy and deserving? And do we put our resources, courage, faith and love in devotion to all those who see us bleed and smile in our pain? As if we were a kind of Christs who were born to let themselves be brought down, to be judged by an excess of compassion and mercy! Father, why have you made us this way? Beasts are indomitable, savage, and any impulse of affliction in them, any weakness, a mere glimmer of civility or self-denial, sensitivity or humanity can trigger aggressiveness, responding to the faithful nature of their vocations. We continue, after all, to fulfill calendars, each with its own agenda, some running away from themselves and others projecting themselves into their interiority. What do we do with the love we bring, except for refugees from evil, sheltered and safe from the abyss of others, to channel the fruit into seeds that spread throughout the universe? - So much light of so much color, in fountains of fire I spread to the whole universe, without attachment to nations, coloring, Sowing and projecting the best in me! And the progress of the seeds will say one day that love spread, multiplied, that it was a cloud of superior brightness, like the dust of Sarah, which contaminated several regions. And they will comment on the news, in the newspapers, in the diaries, in the blogs, and only later on the prescriptions that love has flowed abundantly, that it has grown in the face of war, in the face of conflicts, between the afflicted and the arrogant, that it has rushed and calmed the spirits, that it overcame the frictions, that it conquered on the emotional side the bosses of the world, the masters of it all, the despots and the psychopaths, the technocrats and the selfish, that love impregnated various regions of the globe, that love could only be heard in the streets, in the houses, under the trees, in the lakes and in the springs, in the valleys and hills,  that these days have become gregarious of mankind, as if God had finally to admit his weariness of men and give up the free will granted, that the gods can do anything, that the rules of the world have changed and that they are now governed by new forces that promote the opposite of greed, foolishness, fear and shame, injustice and venom, ignorance and the weariness to rectify without malice,  The coordinates of the new world. I back off again.

 I walked among the tall grasses, and only a month ago the tractor mutilated them. I wish I had the strength to dig up that specific day, where his photograph, framed and large, was pushed by me until it disappeared. I wanted to dig him up, as I buried him. I don't remember how I did it or how I had that ability, I don't remember, I just remember the tears and the despair, the clean snot on my sleeves, the blood on my hands dyeing my skirt and nightgown, the hair full of dirt and vine leaves. How was I able to? Pain has to have an automatic pilot and when it reaches the limit, it allows us everything, it guides us even in sacrileges and attacks against ourselves. I ran away from him, who, seeing my suffering, hugged me and began to grope my breasts, I ran away from him and he, whose fingers were tentacles, pushed me against the kitchen counter, Trying to insert his fingers into my womb, I who was all agony and just needed to be told that tomorrow, he would come, tomorrow this fruit with the name of my womb would realize that I knew how to say mother, I miss you, mother, forgive me, mother, it's not their fault, but mine, and he, that figure smelling of alcohol and whores thought only of himself and simulated a caress that would only be satisfied in mine body in suffering. I pushed him never again and it was never the key to the pull-away. At the time I needed it, I never had any friends, only people who used me and who would continue to use me, if only I allowed them. It wasn't disgust with him, it was a repudiation of inhumanity. I sat on the stone that has seen so much of my pain, and I will never know if the ore I live in reminds me of my laughter or if I was ever so happy that I could fertilize the air around me to this place. I know I was happy one day, and I want to hold on to those moments in order to give me strength, which the placebo does not work. Frankly, I don't remember feeling happy. When a woman doesn't remember her key or glasses for reading, or drinking her coffee after serving it, there's no harm in that. The worst thing is when you forget that the blade breaks you from the inside, allowing the way, the vein to the stylet. I wanted to be strong. I needed to push myself into the ocean so badly. After you, he is the one I miss the most, who has always received my joy and the weather in the same way, always hugging me, roaring and sustaining my cries. Smothering them with salt and foam. 

I walked again as a child. That fall served me for life. The deviation happened, and as it remains, I could say that it was a deviation for life. I ask God with me not to keep him for eternity. But I hold on to it until the end of this life. It had to be. How can we reject a fall, a pain, a loss, if it is not up to us to prevent predictions or make requests? The spine is a lesser evil, the tingling in the extremities is a way of life telling me that I'm still here, that I'll still see days, if not seasons, pass by my side, and I'm just the observer who tries the least risky alignment. Father, give me courage. God willing, I shall see the sea in this life, and heal this pain in its salty body. The wood creaks as I pass, the bats continue to frighten me and I protect myself, I close the curtain, put on music, and give the dream a lap, closing my eyes tightly, a make-believe that this body is not mine, that this mind that keeps me here belongs to someone else who is gone, and I rest my fatigue and lack of courage while I uncloak my jaws, as I release the pulses of this tension that oppresses me. I will be daring, overcome myself by oblivion and lift your photograph from that piece of ground. And to carry the suitcase of boxes and open them by the sea, to see the waves carry everything that hurts me. Your absence, my dead, and perhaps as I look at you, and feel your wetness in your hands, and fill my nostrils with your odor and my eyes with your moods, Perhaps he can, in return, give me back the joy. I don't remember being born to give up, I substitute the word because I'm resistant. I will do that. I promise. Someday.  And that day is coming.