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.

Truth Is

It’s been a long time since someone asked me that question. Or since I trully felt someone meant it. But I guess it is irrelevant anyway. I could say many things and some of them could even be important to someone, but most of them would just go unheard. Or unread.

I don’t know.

From what I have seen, most attempts at communication are bound to fail. Either because the speaker is unable to find the right words, the right way, or because the listener never wanted to be there in the first place.

Or perhaps there has never existed such a thing as “the right words” or “the right way”. Maybe we are just trying, hoping that someday a door will open or a wind will blow or a healthy baby with keen sight will be born in the country of the blind.

Perhaps we should just cease all communication, go to sleep and call it a day, or a month, or a year.

Or eternity.

For you would know as well as I do that there would be no point in waking up.

Everything ends. Nothing begins.

Good night.
Sleep tight.