Y los sueños, sueños son

The best thing to do, is to get rid of the whole thing, through words. And out they come, for when I am in turmoil, so are words, whirling, jostling, then streaming and pouring themselves into my consciousness, then onto a piece of paper, a screen, somewhere (the means are of no importance, if not always, at least on this occasion).

I can dispose. I can erase. I can invent, forget, undo. This is the magic of literature, the sorcerer would say, you can go back, you can regret.

The man is there, after so many years, after uncountable nightmarish nights, there he sits, with his eyes fixed on a book, what is he reading, what is he brooding over, this I wonder. He smokes, as usual, doesn’t he? He lights a cigarette and tastes the smoke as he always did. Then, he calmly sips from his cup of coffee, how I used to love that, how it scares me now.

(Il a mis le cafe / Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait / Dans la tasse de cafe
Il a mis le sucre / Dans le cafe au lait
Avec la petite cuiller / Il a tourne
Il a bu le cafe au lait / Et il a repose la tasse
Sans me parler / Il a allume
Une cigarette / Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumee / Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier / Sans me parler
Sans me regarder / Il s'est leve
Il a mis / Son chapeau sur sa tete
Il a mis / Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait / Et il est parti
Sous la pluie / Sans une parole
Et moi j'ai pris / Ma tete dans ma main
Et j'ai pleure.).

Then he turns the page, and goes on reading, in an eternal movement, the rings of smoke lightly wafting over his head, dreamlike. In a cloud.

It seems as if time never went by, as if nothing changed and yet, I’ve changed, I am a different one, diverse, a woman whose womb has experienced that irreversible metamorphosis called maternity. I am other, yes: this is fact. This is undeniable. But, the question arises, like a pearl formed within an oyster, why I am standing here in the cold, looking at him from the opposite sidewalk, just like the victim of the snake stares at those eyes that are mesmerising, ominous, without being able to get rid of their look; just like the victim of the abyss cannot possibly stop her steps. Why. Why. What to do. To wait, is stupid. Nothing will happen. Nothing must happen. Then why keep on peering what is absolutely forbidden? (There’s no answer for that either, you should know, and I do know, even, I do know there is an answer, an answer which can’t be uttered, it is painful, it is dreary).

The best thing to do, is to get rid of it all. Through words. And have nice dreams.