“It is in us that all is!…”
Fernando Pessoa
Spirits, spirits of flight took me back into the reversed dream which is summoning memories instead of memories summoning us. And there I was. Sent inside myself to my own imprinted past. My book where registered is all the life I created for myself, and that life that others found a way to tell me to recreate.
November is one of those months that are more of a song. November, nove, ember, re, member, dis, member, no, no, ember, dear ove. And there I was. Escorted by spirits, spirits of wandering on two legs. There was a smile nearby. A busy smile of a working heart – art at work inside our biological machine of so imperfect aptness to create everything we so much think we are.
And there I was. Repeating life, as I repeated that phrase. The snow melting in my memory as this tear manly evaporates inside my flesh, a proof of my insane temperature. Touched by myself. Flashes of light blinding my mind. Cold shrinking myself so that my self could enter a past of taverns, cellars and merchants. Surrounded by languages that express differently different views of the same thing, but forming a new reality out of sheer ancestry. Vague, so that its meaning can be filled in by anyone.
My feet led me east and west. And I let my feet think they led me. I even let my eyes think they never looked upon a widely searched for pond to the south. And one night my mind even let the body think it was responsible for beastly behaviour. The mind was wild that night, smelling like instinct. And the unpleasant consequence turned into the most vivid memory. That was in room number five. Vague, but not to everyone.
Let us jump to July. July is one of those months that are more of a song. July, ly, uly, you. The skin toasted outside and the soul was warm inside the outer side of where the soul lives. Sometimes it even lives in me. Ly, uly, lullaby. I could sleep while you could not. Do you remember that sentiment which we could resume as “nice”? For how do you put such sentiment outside without betraying it, showing but a part of it and yet being that part no part of it at all? A fine time for one of those loud silences of yours. Your greys would describe it better. My green-browns would imagine it. And there we would be, nicely
Finally, I found a reason good enough to think it is reasonable for having reversed this dream. It was a problem with the broken principles. It seems that, when broken, the principles will get back to beat you like two sticks, if you broke them once, and multipliable sticks by two, for every time they were broken by you. But it was me who broke them then. Only once. These two sticks are hard, just like the broken branch of that tree which they came out of. The tree-me. Beaten, my memory was ordered not to break anymore those principles of the interval between relationships. The leaves of emotions must be allowed to fall in their natural autumn first, before letting more leaves grow in the following spring. Before all leaves leave us, finally.
