Brief an Lord Raleigh, 26.11.06.

Sehnsucht… one of the first words I learnt of this language that now a days enraptures me until filling each gap of my existence. Since then it has become my favourite; meaning longing, tireless search of the lost ideal, nostalgia of ages which never really existed and actually are the ones which draw the future as a never-ending path, whose threshold I’ve already walked through.
My longest journey set off the moment I decided that my place was between the scroll and the ink pen; and my aim to give expression to every sensation that I would experience along my both inner and outer trips.
Long time ago I lost the faith in the human being, in the possibility of changing the world, in the utopian idea of finding restless souls with higher duties. For so many years I’ve been living between the two realms, whose boundaries were too insurmountable to merge. Due to the fact that it was the only way to break free, I made up a twisted universe of relations, where I stood as the regent who could compose and unravel my own fairytales, space and time were melted and limits undefined. I even gave names to both of them, I even called myself under several identities, I even desired to fall down into the depths of the abyss without turning back to the growing rottenness that I had to face day after day. Time went by and every morning I wished to faint and wake up in the middle of my sublimated dreams. I cursed the wicked reality because I was too much afraid of recognizing the obviousness around. My only motivation was walking along that path among the dried up leaves, and then becoming withdrawn into myself again. Once I had finished my stinky routine and cleared all my imposed obligations I fled to my Sanctuary of harmonic whispers and colourful verses, willing to get lost in each fantasy the way that the caged untamed beast inside me could scream and satisfy its thirst of freedom and revenge…

But the blaue Blume was still running through my veins, refusing to be defeated. That’s why I never gave up and kept on striving for my dream, for rising over the clouds, for rebirthing again in this place, for regaining my fragile innocence then reduced to bleeding pieces.

It’s hard to explain how I feel right now and how this place gave me the last impulse to open my eyes once and for all. As I’ve said before, I died in Spain to be born again here. I feel like that little girl everytime I go shopping and examine slowly the canned food, wondering myself what would they hide inside; surrounded by a pleasant melody of unknown words, exploring each corner of the streets, getting lost in the unintelligible lines of knowledge to find myself again, stammering syllables as fast as possible, hearing conversations that I still can’t break down, as if the citizens walking by were talking about high topics hard to understand… and even though, I feel like home, or rather, I feel like I finally found a place I can call home.
I’m not scared of waking up from any dream anymore, since my reality has turned into the most unbelievable fantasy. There’s no need to hide myself in the forgotten lore or find shelter in the ancestral wisdom, I just read my old writings over and over again instead, feeling proud of each step that brough me to my redemption.I’m not afraid of coming back from university after being sunk in the traditions of the 18th century, since there are two people waiting for me at home, two people that I’d dare to call my family.
When my keys turn in the lock she gets out of her room and listens patiently to the new anecdotes that happened along the day. Sometimes she corrects my exercises and makes me understand my grammatical mistakes, just the way a mother would with her daughter. She cares about my chaotic feeding and slight illnesses grown in the cold autumn, willing to offer any kind of help whenever I’ve needed. Her mother role finishes when she lights a cigarette on my window and the conversations jump from the funniest trifles to the flow of sensations hidden in a dreadful hollow of morality. In spite of the different circumstances that each of us have had to live, the lack of a common language and the few months that we’ve shared; sometimes I feel the reflection of my own soul uttered in her words. I close my eyes and listen to her stories while I can recall fragments of my past in her thoughts.
What could I say about the grey-eyed boy? I owe him the hugest part of my salvation. Just when I had lost all hope of embracing the happiness, when I realised that I had spent four years with someone I never really got to know, when I had refused any kind of feeling close to love, when I had accepted that I could never sit around the fireplace with someone without muttering any word and letting the silence speak…
The little girl I was dreamt of living in a huge mansion and getting married with a known doctor or an intelligent scientist. He wouldn’t build bridges or save human lives, for it is his humility what made me set an eye on him; his rebelliousness against all what society expects from him, his high sensibility for beauty and art, his past which met the same sort of trouble that took place in my old life, and the reliability coming from his words. It’s hard to believe that even when we’ve shared a few weeks he can impressively read what goes through my mind and find out what my quivering face shows. I just feel I’ve finally found the shelter I’ve for so many years been looking for.
He admires my total dedication to my work and my passion for literature; which represents the highest contrast with my former life, a life that I spend with someone who everytime I tried to show my writings to, gave me scorful disdains as an answer. According to him, my task were nonsense and useless, since it only contributed to slow down the scientific progress. He loathed my being inmersed in my books for hours, due to the fact that he thought that my never-ending world of ink and paper was far beyond my interest for him. By the way, he was right. I did never let him touching my sacred empire of fantasy nor coming between me and my unstoppable task of building my dreams one by one. My illusions would never be put behind any other goal; although I regard the possibility of feeding them next to someone else. Quoting the lore in “like father, like son” I consider any further information about this issue unnecessary.

Known is the french philosopher Rousseau by his quote “l’homme est bon, c’est la société qui le corrompt”. In my case his theory goes in reverse. Once I was far enough I healed the parasited demons that were stirring up from the inside, which had slowly turned me into a merciless Nemesis, I started stripping me of all that old inherent selfishness, and even when I still keep my feet on safe grounds I don’t lose the sight of the blueish hue in the sky for a single second. I feel like screaming, crying of joy, drawing a permanent smile on my face, uttering nice words, and trying to bring happiness to all those who surround me and who had bet everything on me; from the ones I’ve lately met til the old friendship I still keep with the one who now a days shares my tears of fullfilment.

This has been my motto since I was old enough to discern right from wrong; finding beauty where it seems to be lacking, and keeping on exploring the confines of an endless realm whose threshold he shown. Specially in this month of dreadful remembrances, in this day of foggy memories, I cast my eyes on the darkened night and my soul whispers in the air, travelling across a zillion stars to reach him. Because I know for sure that he wakes up from his everlasting rest everytime I throw up my hasty words over the empty scrolls, everytime I drop a trembling tear when gazing at the depths of the abyss, everytime I close my eyes and Morpheus takes me to Arcadia to see him again. Even when I’ve already realised that I would never get half the brightness he did or delight the world with the flow of sensations he shed, I know that he looks at me from somewhere, and wherever he is, he’s proud of me for keeping his passion real, his dream, that no one else but you could have better settled: “Don’t let anyone stealing your sensibility and talent for finding beauty in simple things, don’t let anyone despising your untamed heart and rebelliousness, or else your entire existence could be ruined.”


From the inward of my heart
Lots of love from your daughter,
Whose only proud feeling of her past life is the family in which she was born.

The Abyss of your Eyes

The deep bleak abyss… I’ve for so many years wandered through…
… while glancing the path outlined by the rough hills without remaining strength to get out of the heavy rubble mountain in which I had buried myself… out of breath… without reason to glance at the stars again…

A weak flame started burning inside… the longing for my being delighted by staring at the greenland which rose far beyond the abyss…
I stood up still taking a look at the rough cliffs. Bleeding pieces of my broken heart were scattered around the dusty surface. I picked them one by one carefully, cuddle them softly and held them tight while shedding over its red paleness my desperate tears, which I had for so many years restrained during all the time I’ve laid motionless without even daring to breath…
…one step to my redemption…

Just one word was enough to take me out of there… just one thought to feel the tickling of my dead blood waking up from its everlasting sleep… just one confession to set my soul free, just one look into his eyes to heal the deep state of melancholy despair in which I’ve been struggling to survive… just one night… to find the one who was going to save me…

I still recall the past and recover disjointed images of that holy night... and still I can’t believe what is happening to me… I still close my eyes and imagine your charming smile wondering myself when will I take delight of its glow again… I still think of you when I’m falling asleep while inhaling the pleasant smell that you left in my sheets while whispering “I love you”… I still feel the warmth of your icy lips in the underground, and how the world seemed to be crumbling down in that single moment… I still remember the times when fear possessed me and made me believe that my dream couldn’t just be turning real…

And I still think it can’t be true… not in a world full of cruelty and sarcasm.

I sink in your writtings once again and feel how that overwhelming loneliness had been shared for so long… how the sceptic past had gone by… how we had kept on hiding in the shadows without being aware of each other’s existence, and above all, how would it be if you were leant on me right now, embracing me, how fast my heart would beat, and in how many dreams we would fall and fly through when closing our eyes the one next to the other…
… And waking up… and feeling your breath blowing lightly on my cheeks once more, and listening to your quivering pulse coming back to life again, to reality, a reality that you turned into the most delightful reverie…
The ridiculous power of my mind is far too weak to silent the mighty scream locked in my soul. It shouts for passion, fullfillment and satisfaction. It screams for seeing you again, for tearing out all those hidden thoughts that you never dared to share before, it screams because it doesn’t have to run away from incomprehension anymore, because it has finally found its place in your embrace… it cries of pain because there is where it would stay forever… it screams and twists over and over again… and breath deeply…

Past, present and future are suddenly frozen in one single second of held air, forging a fragile tear which reveals the origin of feelings…

I close my eyes and fall from the depths into the aether, going into raptures over the sweetened damnation… getting lost in the new abyss about to explore…

… the greyish abyss of your trembling eyes.




"Falling into the Abyss" [Fragment]
In: Reise zur Innerlichkeit,
Datura Stramonium.

What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed...

"Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your Chief give Ear,
Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons hear!
Ye know the Spheres and various Tasks assign'd,
By Laws Eternal, to th' Aerial Kind.
Some in the Fields of purest AEther play,
And bask and whiten in the Blaze of Day.
Some guide the Course of wandring Orbs on high,
Or roll the Planets thro' the boundless Sky.
Some less refin'd, beneath the Moon's pale Light
Hover, and catch the shooting stars by Night;
Or suck the Mists in grosser Air below,
Or dip their Pinions in the painted Bow,
Or brew fierce Tempests on the wintry Main,
Or o'er the Glebe distill the kindly Rain.
Others on Earth o'er human Race preside,
Watch all their Ways, and all their Actions guide:
Of these the Chief the Care of Nations own,
And guard with Arms Divine the British Throne."

The Rape of the Lock, Canto II. [Fragment]
Alexander Pope.

"Mir erschien damals in einer Art von andauernder Trunkenheit das ganze Dasein als eine große Einheit: geistige und körperliche Welt schien mir keinen Gegensatz zu bilden, ebensowenig höfisches und tierisches Wesen, Kunst und Unkunst, Einsamkeit und Gesellschaft; [...]
Es möchte dem, der solchen Gesinnungen zugänglich ist, als der wohlangelegte Plan einer göttlichen Vorsehung erscheinen, daß mein Geist aus einer so aufgeschwollenen Anmaßung in dieses Äußerste von Kleinmuth und Kraftlosigkeit zusammensinken mußte, welches nun die bleibende Verfassung meines Inneren ist. Aber dergleichen religiöse Auffassungen haben keine Kraft über mich; sie gehören zu den Spinnennetzen, durch welche meine Gedanken durchschießen, hinaus ins Leere, während so viele ihrer Gefährten dort hangen bleiben und zu einer Ruhe kommen. Mir haben sich die Geheimnisse des Glaubens zu einer erhabenen Allegorie verdichtet, die über den Feldern meines Lebens steht wie ein leuchtender Regenbogen, in einer stetigen Ferne, immer bereit, zurückzuweichen, wenn ich mir einfallen ließe, hinzueilen und mich in den Saum meines Mantels hüllen zu wollen.
Aber, mein verehrter Freund, auch die irdischen Begriffe entziehen sich mir in der gleichen Weise. Wie soll ich es versuchen, Ihnen diese seltsamen geistigen Qualen zu schildern, dies Emporschnellen der Fruchtzweige über meinen ausgereckten Händen, dies Zurückweichen des murmelnden Wassers vor meinen dürstenden Lippen?
Mein Fall ist, in Kürze, dieser: Es ist mir völlig die Fähigkeit abhanden gekommen, über irgend etwas zusammenhängend zu denken oder zu sprechen. [...]
Nämlich weil die Sprache, in welcher nicht nur zu schreiben, sondern auch zu denken mir vielleicht gegeben wäre, weder die lateinische noch die englische, noch die italienische oder spanische ist, sondern eine Sprache, in welcher die stummen Dinge zuweilen zu mir sprechen, und in welcher ich vielleicht einst im Grabe vor einem unbekannten Richter mich verantworten werde."


Ein Brief [auch: Brief des Lord Chandos an Francis Bacon],
Hugo von Hoffmannsthal.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear, nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that "was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. "

***

"I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one."

[Extract from Dead Poets Society].
Original source: "Walden; or, life in the Woods",
Henry David Thoreau

"I'll tell you all my ideas about the Looking-glass House. First, there's a room you can see through the glass - that's just the same as our drawing-room, only the things go the other way. [...] The books are something like books, only the words go the wrong way [...]. How nice it would be if we could only get through into the Looking-glass House! [...] Let's pretend there's a way of getting through into it, somehow. Let's pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so that we can get through. Why, it's turning into a sort of mist now, I declare! It'll be easy enough to get through-".
She was up on the chimney-piece while she said this, though she hardly knew how she had got there. And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away, just like a bright silvery mist.
In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-glass room. The very first thing she did was to look whether there was a fire in the fireplace, and she was quite pleased to find that there was a real one, blazing away as brightly as the one she had left behind. "So I shall be as warm here as I was in the old room," thought Alice: "warmer, in fact, because there'll be no one here to scold me away from the fire. Oh, what fun it'll be, when they see me through the glass in here, and can't get at me!"
Then she began looking about, and noticed that what could be seen from the old room was quite common and uninteresting, but that all the rest was a different as possible. [...]



Through the Looking Glass,
Lewis Carroll.