Vittoria o Muerte

Time stands still for who are constantly occupied. Time has no end for who found happiness. But bitterly lonely, I finally know time tonight. For the first time in New York I am alone. I discern no purpose, I know not one who is concerned for me. My house is empty, on the shelf lies a ticket for a transatlantic crossing in August, a mattress and an empty bottle of Corona in the corner. I am waiting, no one awaits me. I have lost my place so often, that I no longer feel the loss of home. I am a gypsy, a wanderer, a day laborer of the mind. The disquiet that has find a place in me is more familiar to me than a friend’s face. And if one wonders if there is sadness in a man’s heart, I will answer yes, there is, but as long as he is alive, there is comfort.

These transient stages between departure and arrival are not my favorite ones. Often, people ask me with a smile beneath their broad or long noses, and a shallow admiration in their dull eyes, do you like to travel? As if there is mystery in the exotic distances, as if going away leads to something. But all these dissettled rumors in my body, this uproar of common complacency, this despise of ubiquitous civic life, it cannot hold me in place. I will never be satisfied. I will be happy in time perhaps, happy to undergo this again. Once one looses the sense of home, the disquiet becomes one self. Of course there is fear, followed by jerks of courage, there is angst, followed by peace of mind, there will not be content unless death.

I do not seek to build anything, but to create. I wish not to find happiness, but to always wonder. I wonder if this struggle to seek a place has an end. Novalis wrote that the mysterious way leads inside, this can be, and I will find the blue lotus of my dreams when it’s there. I wonder what a brief impression can do, like a butterfly clapping its wings on the other side of the world. So I am always curious, like the child.

I find strength, thinking of Alexander crossing the Bosphorus, of Achilles, when I hear Zarathustra speak to me, in me. I will reach Paris and live like the bohemien! Cold in the winter, hot in summer. I will loose my mind, but I will find strength again. At the end there are the stars. I will find courage and charge, running into the battle blindly, but listening only to the sound of bronze grieves, a sword swinging against the leather, and the smell of dust. There must be strength in me, strength to love, love to seek my strength, to endure the night.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.