Threads of Twilight
It is in the lap of night that I lie down on a bed of moss.
At the hour when pines undress. At the hour when lakes overflow.
At the hour when ice hibernates beneath the carpet of the sky.
At the hour when rain absorbs the slow integrity of the Earth, in clandestinely perfect circles.
But where I am, it is not yet night.
The mountain facing North bears within it the summit of verdant splendour which, darkened by the devastation of solitude, frames every shadow of this forsaken city. The breeze, ever so lightly, stirs the slowness of the falling leaves and the little water that marks them.
Lazy eyelids, subjects of a contemplative Waning Quarter, fall suddenly into a sound-drenched slumber, intoxicated by yet another day gone by.
I do not long to witness pupils colliding, that inevitable merging of reservoirs able to dilate the cold that trickles through my soul. I prefer the tacit embrace of silence, of an ink whose permanence my skin already knows by habit. And yet I watch, a sketch of a person by the windowpane.
I see the frantic world in full, imprisoned in its own disenchantment. And I divine the gold the morning carries in its chest, like someone measuring the horizon solely with the absolute side of their gaze.
And why? Because I want it so.
And because no one else does.
Disheartenment takes me and plunges me into a fleeting, crystallised silence, once prolonged, letting its icy hands descend and rest upon the agony of a soul in flames, while my eyes witness the slow germination of days.
Dawn is now written with stem and root, as if the gentle side of the Earth were trembling.
I hear the cadence of footsteps on cobblestones trodden by demented dwellers and vague wanderers, among the confidences of walls chipped away by howls of shadows — accidents, fleeting escapes — with the etched promise of a swift, routine return.
They whisper to me that the magic of threads of twilight hides not in the frailty of clouds, nor in the alternate face of stars. I sense the perpetual flight of leaving and returning, or what is usually called a blind and bipolar escape.
Yes, I sense it, while I constantly question each word and the world, for both assail me with the same relentless urgency. I shall seek the salubrity of a salty brook where I may spend the night, while the moon bathes in the mud abandoned by melancholy.
May I see, through the eyelids of the water, what I keenly watch to discern, real or unreal, in a purple embrace, until I can find the right frame to contain the absence of the painting I have always refused to paint.
And what that might, eventually, mean.
Steeped in reds of revolt and blues of longing.
