The Spider

The legs of a spider travel

the distance of your sleeve

as moments tangle

and meanings ravel

on the edge

of your exposed teeth.

 

“What is this thing I feel on my back?”

You ask, still half asleep

as the grass hums

and rumors creep.

“It is the time that walks

and weights

and heaves

through widening cracks

of bare skin.”

 

The legs of the spider leave

no trace with which to tell

that six eyes did once observe

two narrow shadows

on the brink of becoming

two empty shells.

 

(which the sun later found

and erased)

Uncore

And if I drilled deep enough

and by chance I reached their core

Would I find and open door?

Would I find a door at all?

“Who are you?”

The question runs through my head several times and in the end it passes through effortlessly and leaves without a trace.

“Who am I?”

Once I told my students that I kept my body unadorned because I don’t like the idea of people knowing too much about me. No rings, no bracelets, no piercings, no tattoos. Just the uninterrupted imperfection of my pale skin keeping me safe from the world. You may think I’m being hypocritical here, for what I’m doing now is much more revealing than any tattoo could ever be. Perhaps I am. I’m sharing some of my innermost thoughts with the silent audience that is the blogosphere after all.

“Who are you?”

The question keeps running through my head. It comes back every time I see a stranger at the train station, fidgeting nervously with a piece of paper. It comes back whenever I see them smiling at each other after a careless laugh. Sometimes I have the impression that if I could poke them with a needle made of thought their bodies would collapse and their dreams would flow free from their minds and perhaps I would be able to glimpse them as they spread on the floor, like a sheet made not of water but something lighter and somewhat thicker.

“Who are you?”

The question comes back to me, it always does. It comes back when I watch her moving around the kitchen, looking for the ingredients, holding the pan in that precise way and not other. It comes back when I see him wiping the sweat from his forehead with a thoughtless move of the hand after a long morning working in the garden. Or when I look at her lips in the dark as she lays half-asleep, trying to decide whether she feels as peaceful and content as she looks or the shadows are actually playing to play tricks.

Sometimes I have the feeling that if I look at all of them for a very long time the answer will eventually come to me. That I will be able to uncore them and understand who they are. That what lies within is a resonance of what lies without, or perhaps it’s the other way around or both at the same time.

“Does a pearl make a clam?”

But then what would I do with them? Once I’ve seen them, once I’ve felt all there is to feel, what would I do with them if they cannot see me? If they cannot feel me? There are times in which I feel I am only a resonance and that there is no core at all. That I am but the things I do or the things I say or the things I touch.

Sometimes, when I am alone, I let my hand rest on the cold of the glass for some time. I let it trace the smoothness of polished wood as it sinks partially through the microscopic cracks. Sometimes I let my palm warm on the deaf hardness of a suntouched railing as the iron sings its rusted song. Perhaps this way someone, someday, will find the hollow shape of a hand that has touched everything and I will become the story of that hand and someone will wonder:

“Who are you?”

And then, after they have looked at that hand for a long time, after they have seen me fidgeting nervously with a piece of paper, after they have seen me smile after a careless laugh, after they have glimpsed my dreams spreading like something ligther than water but somewhat thicker, perhaps they will be able to tell me who I am.

And then, after they have seen me moving around in the kitchen, holding the pan that way and not the other, after they have seen me wiping the sweat from my forehead or looked at my lips as I lay half-asleep trying to decide whether the shadows are playing to play tricks, they will be able to find my core.

If there is any.

Will you hold my hand as we wait?

Smokescreen

The voice of a stranger echoes in my mind.

I came back today, just for a while. The walls were still the same but the faces had changed. Even though I could recognize their smiles, their voices were no longer mine.

The human drama goes on and on as we scurry around with our insect-like thougts, always on the brink of exhaustion, trying to scratch the surface of another heart with our clawless, harmless baby fists.

There was a time when everything was silence and all the things were laid bare. Then we discovered the word and rational thought and we made it our goal to drown the silence. We corrupted it, we twisted it, we strained it without understanding that we too are made of silence.

Sometimes I fall in love with the warmth of a hand I have never held. Sometimes I want to love the sadness in his old, tired eyes as I tell him that there is nothing to fear, that the silence is coming and that his soul will be laid bare again before the Unmaker. Sometimes I find a blue moon in her smile and I pray for the sun to never rise again. But then I remember that I am in love with the sun too.

Can we really love someone without ever hurting them?

Today I only want to sleep my mind away into nothingness within the walls of this impenetrable fortress that is the self.

Monastery of Silence

~Truth.

~Truth?

~Yes, truth.

They were sitting on their favourite bench in the gardens of an old monastery. The place was as silent as it had been the first time they had found it on one of their occasional wanderings.

They had been visiting one of the most populated memory cores they had discovered up until that moment. That core in particular had adopted the shape of a pre-industrial crowded city. It was a place full of people and smells and noises. Beggars, priests, noblemen; the highest and the lowest mixed up, living in a perpetual state of chaos, a city inhabiting its citizens. Always in motion, ever on the brink of change, but not quite.

At first, they enjoyed it. They bathed on the pungent smells, they soared the screeching noises, they searched and found themselves in a toothless smile, a tired glance, a manic laugh; ever moving from one body to another, leaping from one soul to the next, until the presence of the city became too big and complete and their heartbeats too distant and faint and they had to run away.

They named that place Chaos, and swore to each other never to return.

The monastery had been hiding in a small mountain range next to Chaos. They had found it almost by chance, if such a thing existed in their world.

~You once asked me how I would define the world if I could only use one word, and that’s my answer. Truth. His thoughts echoed in her mind as clear and close as if they had been uttered.

To an external observer, they would have looked like a young couple sitting on a bench under an old pine tree, lost amidst the silence, not minding each other.

~That’s rather a vague answer, she sent back. Truth can mean everything or nothing at all.

They lost themselves in the silence of the monastery for a while.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision for them to use their mind-touch. As soon as they stepped into the gardens of the monastery they immediately understood why they had been drawn to that place.

The transition had been smoother than dawn. At that moment, they both had felt it, had been aware of it, but as they walked among the bushes and the trees, as they approached the old silent building, they forgot how to talk, how to speak, and they suddenly realised that words were forbidden in that sacred place.

It’s not that they couldn’t speak. That was their world after all, and they knew that they could choose to speak if they so wished, but they also knew that, as soon as they had crossed the unseen boundaries of the monastery, words had turned into meaningless blurbs of sound, careless and irrelevant, obscure references to meanings far beyond the surface of their thoughts.

~That’s precisely my point, he signalled, breaking the static of their mind-touch. Truth, or rather the absence of it, defines not only my world, but everyone’s.

She glanced at him sceptically, raising an eyebrow. She was used to this kind of categorical claims but still, his sometimes utter lack of humility never failed to surprise her… or amuse her.

~Enlighten me, she sent mockingly.

He moved, ever so slightly, and his distant expression turned into a more focused one. She watched him as he rearranged himself on the bench, turning his body towards hers, fractionally, almost imperceptibly, just like every time he was about to say something momentous (or something he had been rehearsing in his head, as she had learnt to notice).

~Take for instance the people at Chaos. They live their lives in constant motion, a perpetual process of change that never ends. Their lives are like the water-flow of a thousand rivers, only their rivers are birthless and purposeless, furious streams of raging waters preying upon one another. His thoughts flowed in an orderly row with the clarity and certainty he always tried to convey in his discourses. Each of his words was limited and constrained by its own distinct shape, instilling his speech with a rationality he sometimes lacked.

In the inner layers of her mind, she laughed secretly at that. After countless conversations, voiced and silent, he still felt the need to modulate the tone of his voice, to carefully choose every word, as if the wrong choice could destroy any possibility of communication.

Perhaps it could.

She turned her gaze towards the old monastery and, signalling the precise amount of eagerness, urged him to continue.