If your house was on fire, what would you take with you?
Hesitation before beginning…take off. The wonderful ending gets applause because there was never a real beginning. Enchantment comes from nowhere and vanishes into nothingness. Yet something did happen: the tragicomic game of postponement, of unselfconscious pleasure, certain that it doesn’t fit in reality, not positioned in time. It is nothing; nothing preseded it, and nothing followed. Hesitation and continuing idleness. A presence of sound in an empty theater, where noise falls silent and dwindles into a perfect acoustic presence. In an empty gothic church, noise disappears in a heavenly echo which is no longer claimed by anyone. And the emptiness is fully honoured as a dept to oblivion, a relentless preservation of waiting. Gazing into the cold light, fascinated with disappearence. Morality of exclusion and omission jusitied by existence itself, which presents itself as a meaningless comedy, a terrifying drama. Renounce the future. Is there a beginning? It’s certainly not self-evident, nor without obstacles.
Now be still. Wait, with nothing in hand, without arms, motionless, silent, alert, unconcerned, gazing at the light. Postpone the departure. Starting is the beginning of no way back: irreversible act, battle, effort, failure, devotion, finality, sacrifice. Slave to slavery. Existential effort to stand out in the world. Impossible to go any further. Reality within reality. Irrevocable participation of someone who irrevocably keeps lagging behind himself: someone for whom the world exists.
I stand on the dark shore clasping an hourglass in my bony, decayed hand. I’m numb, sad and cold; life is still far away. Imperialism in time has become the making of history, a shouting dictator without a forum. A temporary inconvenience. Here are empty palaces, houses and huts where lights burn day and night. Fire. In a pale, watery reflection the city gleams and lives in oblivion. In silence we conceal ourselves from eachother. Silence…eternity was sold long ago to an alien lord; time is over he said. “Do what you wish when you don’t know what you want! Go away! Get out and wander around.
Who doesn’t carry the image of someone who wants to meet? Don’t skip the beginning when you prepare yourself for the end… When love is blind, no one is visible. No wind no word. Do my words fit with my voice, do my deeds suit my hand, do my images belong to the world, shall I return? There’s more. Who doesn’t know the girl walking. The house on the hill. The unnamed street. Whoever speaks is silent about something else. Within the conception the world is created. I assume my thoughts are part of others’ ideas. Others I don’t know, but can imagine in representations they don’t know. There are many others. The world turns slowly.
I sit on a rock in the sun. There’s nothing to see. An outsider, he is someone who studies his own position. Oh, precious moment, let me stay in your vacant villa so I can live in laziness, slow in a sea of foam and light.