33332308 i exist excerpt

8/8/2019 33332308 I EXIST Excerpt

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8/8/2019 33332308 I EXIST Excerpt


A maculis decor J. Boschius

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INTRO

It matters not who I am, in the bigger picture. I am unimportant. I only am one

who observes. I watch and watch. I am there, on the rooftop, and I see the world turn,ever so fast. People run and never arrive. Times definitely have changed, and they do so

more by the minute. Yesterday, changes were at human rate; presently, they are at that of the machine. Those caught up in it are dizzy; and these refer to certain others as ‘late’.

To share with you what I have seen, is my desire. Many adventures I have had,

but there are many ‘adventure stories’ out there for me to add just one more. Perhaps someday, who knows. Or should I say some night? Well, there it is: I am an unnatural

being, resembling an enigmatic looking man. This is not to be the emphasis of this tale,

however. I shall endeavour not to be too obvious. There is more obviousness in this

world than is necessary. And it is precisely of this I wish to speak here; about thosethings that became so loud, and so entangled, for so long, that they have left humanity

numb. Thus, you are not aware anymore. Well, some of you. The most of you. Blind and deaf. Trust my vantage point: I behold, and I listen, from the outside.Sometimes, it gets to be too much, this watching. I perceive so much phenomena

that I must filter what comes into my perception organs. I control my perception

thresholds at will, which are wider than yours. For example, when I look at something,the vision will blur like an impressionist painting, and the object of my focus is

heightened as though by a magnifying glass. I am intensified, to put it so; my senses and

abilities are immeasurably superior to those of a human being, but at a price: I ambanished, and I am limited in the circadian cycle to only half. I half live, and that is

maybe why I do not die, utterly. But I seize what I get, and on this I base my existence.

You can see, live, in the daylight (and I envy you for it); I can only have it in

reproductions. As you can realize, I have resolved to share some of me, also. A need to be

acknowledged, to be seen, to be perceived, to be sensed, had been maturing in me for a

long, long time. I feel urged to know that I have being and that, perhaps, I am not asdetrimental as I can feel, or am made out to be. The more I am believed in, the more I am

present; by me, by someone, by all.

Through the ages, geography or epoch do not matter much, at least in the things I shall tell, for humans are humans, and have changed little, albeit lately it seems plenty.

Without a doubt, time and place have a certain influence in people, but I keep stumbling

on the same subjects, though every one gets into these in their own singular way. Also,

bear in mind that singularity is relative. I contravene myself if I do not specify this. For the sake of generalizing, I shall indulge myself with ‘people’, throughout this

narration, in order to show how the ones depicted here stand out from everyone else.

And then again, maybe it is their non-singularity that makes them a representative of alarger species. No apologies or excuses will you get from me. Let us get to my point: the

vast majority of people behave as a mindless unity. Individuality is the big sacrifice, and

yet, everyone seems to be out for themselves. Most of them are uninteresting; they do not shine as much, hardly sparkle. They are astounding only as a whole, as humanity,

continually struggling, in conflict with each other, and within themselves. Still, each one

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is decisive, for they at any rate influence others, and so forth. Anyone can become ahistorical figure, so to speak, as it is proven time and time again. It is when humans are

alone, in the intimacy of the company of someone who will not censure them (at first, at

least), that they allow themselves out. Then, it is interesting, trivial though it may be. But

that is just it, at least to me. A great many people do not see perfection because they see

as human beings, not as divine beings; or as doomed ones. They should rid themselves of the disguise sometimes.

Through this account, you might argue that ‘people are not that open’, and youwould be right. Many of them are shut and sealed off. In appearances and numbers, they

ensconce their insecurities and lacks, but this does not necessarily make them happy.

They get by. Most of them are inert, so I do not engage them. Another lot is desperatelylooking to be heard, to communicate and be communicated to, and I can make them

express themselves, occasionally, with a little extra effort. They are ever so eager to talk

about themselves, for no one listens any longer. When there is a chance, they grab it: I,

me, myself, mine. It is rather convenient for me; no inquiries on me. Nevertheless, everyonce in a while, someone does. I swerve, hither and thither; it is better that they do not

know. Moreover, I believe they can feel the emptiness in me, the wide waste that I aminside, and seize the gratuitous space to lighten the weight of their enormous ego or their own big loneliness. This is closer to the truth, I would say.

Loners attract me. I relate, I suppose. They have more to tell than those in packs,

in hordes, where the self is diluted. They go their own way. How I meet with them? I can introduce myself in almost any situation. However, I

cannot just present myself and pretend to be admitted everyplace. Among humans, it is

easier for me to make my path on a relatively private basis. The opposite, mingling incrowds, is not much trouble either. I pass unnoticed, if I desire to. There are some days,

and nights, that you celebrate, when I am the least wary and the most social, such as

carnivals or the like, or on that nowadays widely spread custom of All Hallows’ Eve.

This is not an attempt to be witty or ‘funny’, on my behalf, believe me; on such nights, some fellows let themselves loose, and put a mask over their mask. A flash of freedom.

Harmless and mediocre, mostly, but nevertheless, quite telling. On such nights, I do wear

a costume as well: that of a human. The rest of the time, I am… not.On occasion, there are some that sense a difference in me, but quickly dismiss it,

and I choose then to leave their presence. I try not to look at them in the eyes for too

long, lest they see me for what I really am. And, though I must declare that it is still, and I guess will always be, pleasant to be liked, even loved, for a while, it annoys me when

they flee from me. Their fear wounds me; but, what are they to do? What creature does

not flee from a predator?

These times’ indifference is my most effective disguise. They used to believe morebefore. So it was more dangerous for me. Faith was keener. Now, it is dull; people are

dull, convinced that they are sharp. They rationalize in this age; use those mechanisms

that intend to explain the obvious, as well as the unexplainable. It grants peace to some,a weapon to others. No room to believe in the supernatural. So they call ‘fantasy’ all that

is not ‘reality’. However, this that they call fantasy is that other reality which many deny,

only because it is not observable directly, but only indirectly. When some say, ‘it might be telepathy, necromancy, synchronicity, it might be an angel, it is written in the stars’,

there could be the possibility that they got it right. That possibility is it –is me. It is the

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door to that other world that is as real as this one. Men of science ask themselves whywhales hurl themselves out of the water, and I say it is because it makes them feel free, it

feels grand for them, to get high, and when they someday say that it is some type of

communication or mating signal, I will still believe in my averment. I just feel it.

To add to my advantages, one stumbles upon the strangest characters everywhere

now and no one makes something of it. Yet, when I encounter someone with a spark inthe eyes, a shine, I go after them, like a moth to the light bulb. Sometimes I smash against

it, and sometimes, more than once at a time, only to know what they are made of, if you get my meaning; to find out where they get their shine from and enjoy some brightness.

Every single person has a story, but not all are that enrapturing. It is not a coincidence, I

believe, that each one in my forthcoming stories had a unique physical feature: nearly pointy ears, sensual, crooked teeth, specked eyes, skin all covered in freckles, wrinkles

like dry waterways. Some could argue that not two persons are alike, but ‘special’

persons have almost always a certain something, physically, which makes them

distinctive, be it a gift, a flaw, or just ‘something’.My face is quite theriomorphic. There is no mistaking me. Or is there? If I must

be truly specific for your sake, I shall tell you that my looks are Mediterranean. I concentrate not to exhibit my emotions much. My nature is revealed more easily so, and sometimes it is frightening, for it is too extreme. For instance, if I am upset, or if anger is

rising in me, I bristle, invisibly, but not to those with their third eye open. It is not

advisable to anger me, though; my might is quite superior to that of any human being;but I use it to amuse myself sooner than to harm. If I laugh, I do it loudly, like a madman,

though this very seldom takes place. When I fall in thrall with something or someone, it is

plain to perceive that my desire is only too savouring, and when I am hopeless innothingness, I look a corpse. I would say that all I am is ever evident in my eyes. Do not

think that it is the same with everybody because it is not. Some are buried in their own

depths, some are simply dead…

With some of those I mentioned earlier, I converse. Those who appear strong or arousing enough. Others seem better left alone, or as if they cannot express themselves

verbally, for whatever reason: these I listen to with my mind, and often, most of the time,

really, it is more intimate thus. Purer is the exact word. Some are quite confused, but seem ‘normal’ to everyone else; others are crazy, inside and outside, and it is like an

accident, a chaos. Although I have witnessed my share of atrocities, and am hardly

shocked anymore, only a glimpse is enough, for I simply cannot make much of them, of every single one, but again, only as a whole. They are the result of neglect, of sheer

insanity; now and then, of nature’s mistakes, even as they say that nature is perfect.

What I find is reverberation, several-fold: people do not forget; most of them just

let themselves go; only few grab some sort of moral hold; all they want and need is love;they wish earnestly to believe that they will be fine, that there is a Greater Being that

watches over them, and that pain or fear, as profoundly as they have felt it, will not

possess them again. Some find reasons and others do not. Many are asleep, a handful isawake, but at least almost everybody has had a dream. And so on.

Much spoken and little said. I have never been one of many words myself, and the

more I go on, the more I realize how these are wasted and over-generated, as what would be expressed can be done with only a sentence, or even less: a look, a physical

touch, a smile, a frown. The heart speaks through many means, but the mind gets in the

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way. People squander words. They make noise. Their ears are saturated, not sweetened. Perhaps that is why they choose not to listen any more. If chanting is less and less by the

moment, what is there to listen to?

Now, regarding vision, I am cautious not to go into their sight too intently. People

feel naked, and fall in a spell; and I too, I must say. Then they could discover me –too

close for comfort. There is another fashion to see, however, to perceive; just as I can seeand listen to colors and intensities and sounds that the human range cannot, likewise I

can accede to those other vibrations that tinge the inner world of people –also, even smell and taste them. Sometimes thoughts are very clear, like speech. Others, such as

single words or expressions; I shall ‘fill in the blanks’ all the way through to make sense

for you. Other times, I get only feelings. The most abstract. Oft have I wondered if I was projecting my own images or feelings, as it is not uncommon, when people are especially

open and receptive, for them to utter something I had in myself. Some definitely are

looking for something in me –we all look for something in others. Then again, I tend to

get close like this, so I am not that far apart. But, sooner or later, in our exchange, they sense ‘my spots’.

The gift I cherish most has been the stuff of dreams for human beings, probably since their beginning: not to be bounded by gravity, to take to the air, on invisible wings,to be free as a bird, as the saying goes. It is liberating, most definitely, let me tell you, to

be able to behold the wonders of the earth and its guests, like ants swarming over their

lighted anthills; it puts everything ‘in perspective’, so to speak. It is a power like noother, a veritable elevation of the spirit, a conquest over the world, hardly describable

otherwise. And yet, there are times when this gift feels like an anathema, as I realize that

I am no bird, that only angels should be granted this blessed faculty, that humanityentails being earthbound, to have the feet over the ground –and I need to believe that I

have some humanity left in me. It is as though flying were tantamount to being adrift in a

vacuum of anti-nature, in a space of willful aberration. I try not to go in there, for my

own good, and only concentrate on taking pleasure in it, but even pleasure can induce such dark feelings: sometimes, there is just so much beauty to experience, within and

without, that it feels so foreign to one such as me.

There have been circumstances in which some must have sensed this gift. Ever and anon, they think that I am an angel, when I am just the contrary. I cannot deny that I

rather love this comparison, for I feel such endearment for those beings that I would be

like them, yet, upon their smiling, they do not display stinging teeth, and this makes all the difference –as if this were the only one. At least such are those that hover in the space

of my head. But such attribution has even turned into tragedy a few but too many

regrettable times: they would believe in higher beings, and, instead, they got the lower. A

cruel way to be reminded, for them and for me. When I became this that I am, I remember I hurt the innocent, making no distinctions, instead of retaliating against the

true culprit. Believing myself innocent once, I would see myself in those who were so,

and being undone, I would undo them too; there is such a simple and twisted logic to it:a human legacy. Sorrow granted me licence. It was easy, easier, thus. When it hurts,

when it feels as though you are being ripped of your guts, you shut your eyes tight, do

you not? One can get lost when sightless. But ever so slowly, one begins to see, thoughone’s eyes are not the same as before. I admit that my livelihood drives me, but

somehow, I have been developing a sort of scruple, which could be summed up into a

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reconciling sentence: ‘the dark to the dark’. So, I am a channel, a funnel, an accelerator. I intend to enforce it whenever I can, but I shall not mislead you: trusting my mood, there

is nothing to trust on. I do not do more wrong than I need to, but it makes no difference, I

think. I mean, there is enough havoc on this earth. But you know this. Let me tell you that

some subjects are just plain obscure; I can see it, see in the dark, and these spare my

conscience, if I have one. And who, you may ask, is to determine who is innocent, who isevil, who is good? We ourselves do. Each one of us. It is a personal judgment call, yet

one that comes from what we have been told before, and are told now; from a broader understanding –and misunderstanding. There can be agreements and disagreements, and

always there will be the necessity to pick from two evils, as well as from two goods, but

the choice is personal, as well as the reasons for it. The path of each one is ‘one only person wide’. All progress on their own, in life and in death. It is hard, if not impossible,

to forsake where one comes from, and the world’s influence affects even one such as me.

Life has been gaining more value with every passing century, as humanity finds itself

closer in a place that seems to get smaller. But as I have mentioned, I have certain abilities: I can listen to the unsaid, sense

the colors of the heart somewhat stronger than humans. This makes a difference, whichcasts me into exhausting trips with the purpose of finding rationales to conciliate mynature and my mind. They are like siblings that do not get along, sometimes.

It is all a chain: one bad deed leads to another. When I play good, from one point,

I could be prolonging it, from another, I could be severing it. It depends. Some say that this chain is exactly as it is supposed to be.

Sometimes, I am contradiction, others, I am utterly biased. Get it?

Humans are like glasses, like grails, like chalices, like horns, like wooden or claycups. Different vessels, same spirit. I imbibe from them to quench my thirst. They have

got life to spare; some at least. But I do not empty them every time because I do not need

to. Not anymore. Only when I like. It gives them a purpose to be full, indeed, even if some

appear empty. Certainly some are, and then I really empty them. Nothing is lost, I tell you. If I delved on the effect I have on every single person I come across, I would not be

able to go on; and go on I do, willingly or not. I do not deem myself a merciless game

hunter. I am now more of a sport hunter, with an edge. I appear to appreciate life now.Once again, I get what I need. These times it is not a great deal, or rather, it depends. If I

need my capacities in greater quality and quantity, I must get more, logically. All the

worse for some. But let me confide in you: nobody misses the ones I take most. No onenotices. Still, I could not be blamed for every mishap that there is. There are other

causes.

Lately, I consider myself fortunate to be able to see, to experience, and come out

alive, albeit sometimes barely –but then again, life is relative, correct? I feel like anartist feels, doing what he was born to do, and loves to do, and gets the world in return. I

cannot contribute to evil, willingly, when good is all I get. Well, not always; I am getting

carried away. It is not that simple. I am grateful for the treats the world renders me, but I hold a murdering grudge against existence. There is a difference.

And then, on occasion, I feel like there is only scrap left of me. Sometimes I

believe that I live, sure; others, that I survive; and others, that I merely exist; and sometimes, not even that.

It feels pleasant to be telling you this, indeed. I thank you for your interest.

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I am able to move forward in this life, if I should call it so, with a somewhat sharper grasp, and get to learn and know. Some would say that it is in a personal and not

universal form, and I could not agree more; and care less. I only get richer, though

nothing is for free, as they say. I too suffer, not like everybody else, but in a more

profound and torturous manner, as my intensified nature dictates. It is Hell on earth

when I do, let us put it that way, and I know how hellish pain can be for human beings aswell. What is pain for me? Loneliness. It seems as though my whole existence is one

struggle to endure it. Forever, and never desired. It is such a mill, blown by the proverbial butterfly’s flap of wing, grinding, lacerating my heart. Thus, my liaisons,

natural wilderness aside, just cannot last, or at least not in conventional ways. My way is

too long and wide, wider than you could ever imagine. I can never remain, much less fall in love. Some get deep in me, but there is no future, because there is just too much future,

to name one reason. I appear to be changeless, in a world of change –the strange and

jarring undoing of me. My time is different than yours: picture it as if mortal time were

stretched as a rubber band; what it takes one day to discern, it takes a year to me, for example. And yet, I grasp things rather supernaturally quick. It is not really measurable.

Not liable for conversion. I did not mean to confuse you. An orphan of time; that is what I am. And then, what is time? What anchors me tothe past is true life and love, or rather, their loss; to the present, music and curiosity; and

to the future, the dream. Still, all this goes ever on within me, simultaneously.

I am not always around human beings, however. Sometimes I am in thewilderness. A sensation so ample, that it is without reckoning. I am surrounded by

immensity. Such a giant entity of sorts, so big, that it is infinitely slow. And infinitely

alive. Sometimes I help myself with a few of the inventions of humankind there;everywhere, in fact. Even though I could call myself a roamer, I have fixed myself many

different kinds of lairs all over the world, depending on the circumstances and

availabilities. It is always stimulatingly challenging to get to a place and come across the

things I shall necessitate to make my faring ever so agreeable, or at least endurable,depending on my mood.

A creature of twilight I am, though I only come alive at night. You will understand

what I mean.I have been around for a long time, and let me tell you: there is always

something new to learn. One can always be surprised. Had I lost that, I would really be

dead. By now, I have learned a lot, but since one never stops learning, as some sageshave marked correctly, there are things for me to look forward to yet. Do you see? I

suppose I am naive still in some respects, and thank Providence for it. The way, anyone’s

way, is laden with adventures, if one is only acute enough to be aware of them; and be

willing to get into them, of course. ‘What does not kill you makes you stronger’: such prodigious truth. It is such a jewel, such a sword, such a mantra, such a torch. I fall in

love with essences, wherever I get them from.

Several purposes there are for the collection of anecdotes that follow. I have themin me, and if I do not share them, if I do not let them out, it will be a waste. Everybody

has something to say, even I. And this has a drive of its own. I write it because I am

unable to share it freely, or better yet, this is some kind of freedom for me. Words saveme, just as music does; they are a way out for me, and into me. From my quills, my

feathers. With my feathers I soar, like feelings, stories, or thoughts do. Rooted in my

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veins, nourished by my blood, they grow out of me. And, though sometimes I see these feathers and enjoy them, and let them take me high away, others I forget about them,

ignore them, am not able to see them, or maybe I lose them inadvertently, because of lack

of care, of pride, of might, of drive: that is when I am down, so much so that I can not lift

my head. With these feathers I spill my heart out, and the ink is my blood. Every thought,

feeling, story to tell, one feather of mine goes. New ones grow back, nevertheless, but every word is like a flier itself, in the end. And still, inside, I am more images than words.

I shall specify to you throughout, for clarity’s sake. Existence is barter, give and take. I take, and I receive as well. This once, I wish

to give something back, if I can. Everything and everybody we come across can teach us,

as I have been proven time and again, though not very many are masters. In truth, I donot seek sympathy nor approval nor to be liked even. Only one can furnish oneself with

that, and I manage.

Another reason is that you get the perspective of, well, let us say, one like me. I

belong to a breed apart –apart, such isolating word, yet, precise–, even though I shall not mention others. I will just say that the only thing that binds us together is our nature,

but we are as different as the next one. Each one deals with their existence in a distinct manner: some are cruel, some are always wondering, some have gone mad, some are not alone, some even pretend. I myself feel uneasy in the company of most of them. I sense

from them a kind of primeval rivalry in which I care not to partake. Seldom have I read

or seen depictions of our like that are authentic, maybe only in certain details; most common ones are cartoon-like theatricals. Affected in extreme. As you progress through

these pages, do not picture me thus. Personally, it bothers me not, however, the

stereotype. I mean, what do they know, correct? I think it rather helps anonymity, as oneis far from such comic demeanours. Reserved we are. I do not like to say ‘we’. I should

not speak so. It has ever been ‘they’ and ‘I’. I care not about them. I am alone. I make in

solitude my wandering steps. They, anyone mostly, either love me or hate me. And time

and time again, few glimpse me. Oh, yes: this beastly circumstance applies to me as well –it is ever the even against the odd, is it not? I go on and on, but sometimes I am so

exhausted that I nearly lose my mind. I have wondered, scraping from the very depths of

my own bottomless pit, to my brief but revealing contacts with heaven, and everything amidst these, whether there is a point in me. If it is not doing this that I do right now,

communicating, I must say I have not found it yet. I hope it is this, if not anything better.

Given my condition, I doubt it. And this feels alleviating. Long gone are the times when I feasted in self-loathing.

Be certain that these happenings took place, while you slept, while you were

awake. Maybe I strolled right by you once, and I was only another passer-by to you.

Maybe, you have glimpsed me, and thought that I was a strange one. You hit half themark. I too have seen you: you are one of the kind. These stories are moments when all

fit, in which all made sense, perfectly. It is perfection, though it may not seem so at first

glance to you. To me, it did.This is a vamping. I do not pretend to convey here ultimate truths. I only mean to

tell of simple things which to me are beautiful. Bear in mind that not all things beautiful

are pleasant or happy. I dare not guess what you will find in the coming accounts,however, may this not dissuade you, but allow you to empathise, and thus feel. I do this

primarily for myself. If you obtain something out of it, that is even better. My point is

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this: I keep hearing the same songs; sometimes it is comforting, and sometimes it isdisconcerting, and sometimes it is bewildering.

As the rock and roll bard said, “the song remains the same”.

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WATCHINGS

There was a lonely cloud up in the sky. It was neither big nor small. It had a

proportional size in this frame of my vision. It was not too far away. I mused about it; Iwould wing-ski that purple cloud, light speed, as though on safer, higher grounds. I

will…

I am. The attraction of this celestial world is stronger on me than the one below. Ican see why: bare, softly curvaceous, spirit colored, placid. To dive into this dream

substance. To feel the water, as a whisper, as oceans wrapped in ether. To be smitten,

charged by the electricity, the quintessence of The Mystery. It is like a beautiful and

palatable woman, lain down. I drifted, upwards, and away. A long airway off into blissfulabandon.

Surreal. Like the deepest zone of the mind: no up or down, no here or there, no in

or out. To fly over the sea, so high that you can see the moon mirrored over the ocean,

and above, in the sky: I am caught between two moons. The stars are the waves, and thewaves are the stars. Dark, yet sublime. Nothing like clear nights out in the open sea, as

any sailor will attest. You would think that by being far up from the ground, or the water,for that matter, I would not be any closer to the stars than you, as they are trillions of

leagues away; but I am. I tell you I am. And they do chime, just like Le Petit Prince said

they would, just like every truth this my recent great avatar ever said. But only

sometimes. Sometimes, they do not. Then, I am the loneliest one.I let the wind carry me such a kite. I found myself glided back, still high over the

land. Artificial lights made a dismal contrast to what I had just beheld, and I headed for a

less populated region. Why did I come back here?, I queried myself. Eventually, I wastraveling over a deserted highway. There was a car streaming on it. I got slightly lower,

close, to be able to listen to the driver’s thoughts:

“I’m gliding…

A space wanderer… A wonderer in space…

All is dark…

All but the reflecting lines that are like stars…They guide me as I outrun them fast…

Into the dark…

I’m going into myself…

This space-scape looks all the same…

I’ve left time behind…

The motion sensation seems to disappear… As does the droning…

It’s the shooting stars that speed by now…

I am just still…Where was it I was going anyway…?

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Here I am”

Fascinating. What some people come up with when they let themselves go.Such a dark angel, I followed his advance, aloft. Something of a pain arose in

him, and he arrayed it with words:

“I feel horizontal

Ground on the ground Unable to beat the pull… or the push

I guess I could But I don’t feel up to it

Don’t feel like anything, if not for this

For going…

I’m in a whirlwind, in a sewer

Being sucked in I’m missing something, inside, in my head And I don’t know where to find it

No one can help

This I’ve found, but it feels like I’ve lost, by doing it

My girl… how I miss you…!

I’m so sorry! I want to be a good father to you

But she won’t let me

It was just one time… one time… Please, I’ll never do it again…!

Oh, fuck it!”

The last sentence echoed in him. He would not fight against tears anymore, hesaid to himself, and took a swig from a bottle. I sensed the numbing of his wits.

Another car was coming near, behind him. I focused on its occupant and was

surprised.

Opaque. Nothing in him shone. He was wrapped in darkness, and I did not seesomething worthwhile inside to hide –nothing bright, that is. He had grisly secrets. He

babbled; his voice sounded drowned out in murky waters. A Picasso he resembled:

unbalanced, badly composed. I had met his kind before. The infernal fugitives. Duringthe times of the iniquitous factories of reluctant saints, or The Inquisition, as it is known,

some of them even played a public, though nonetheless sinister role, and on one man

terror reigns, the same, but in the vilest shadows; they are the bloody hands of someoneelse, someone powerful. More often than not, they are bred in the middle of ‘civilization’.

Some times they have been caught, others they have not. And this one was even

predictable.

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Blurry images crossed his mind. He had a fetish for sharp metal objects: their

shape, their shine, their cold feel. He had not that many, however. He fell in love with his

steel ware, and he had to fall in love with a new one, so he could dispose of the habitualone. This is only a manner of speaking, however; he felt nothing. He was not a human

being, in the human sense of the notion –only looked like one. He did not have a heart.

He did not relate to people. He interacted with them, as mechanically as they could reactto him.

To be a real human being, it came to me, as I see it, from the outside, one has to

affect another’s life in a useful, preservative manner. Like giving a hand, a word, a know-how, a tool, a song, love. Otherwise, that ‘one’ is just the unknown, falling tree in the

middle of the deep forest; only a nameless organic being; or, in an accidental or

destructive mode, like a tornado, an earthquake, an avalanche, a hailstorm, a

conflagration, a drought. Nonetheless, for many, those such as these are nothing but a pebble in their shoe, an itch that is hard to scratch, solely an effect of nature’s freak

course. He was both: nameless, and nature’s harmful detour, as he was split. In this

moment, he was being the latter. And, probably, he was never someone’s son: he was the

outcome of one who never was, most likely. Rather, of two. Nevertheless, people were his favorite pastime. Exclusively, women. Not too

young, not too old. He lured them, and then played with them. This was his thing . I sawimages of slaughter. He was captivated by how in some places of the human body, the

blood gushes like an open faucet, and in others it comes out little by little, like his

salivating mouth when he acted these pleasures of his out. There was nothing inside him

but this. There were enormous voids where memories, tomorrows, and emotions would be. He was like an animal. More accurately, an insect; a mantis. Famished he was. He

had been out hunting for hours, with no ‘luck’.

Thus, he drove alongside the rolling spaceship in front of him. The night driver turned automatically to the mantis’ car on his left, but thought nothing of it. He was on

another road . The mantis slowed down and let the night driver get on slightly ahead of

him. He was somewhat disappointed: it was a man. For some while, he thought about it.It was not perfect . But he was getting feverish. The idea of hitting the night driver’s car,

in order for him to stop, was his final choice. I wondered if anyone whose car was hit by

another, driving down the highway in the middle of the night, would stop.And then, it happened. I switched back to the night driver, and I saw a connection.

He was perhaps so open, so vulnerable, so perceptive to life, and to death, that he must

have caught what was coming up for him. He brooded:

“I’ve tried…

And I’m tired Dead tired…

In the end, everything ends, everything dies If I knew I were to die

I would like to feel at ease, excited, thankful

I would try not to see injustice, because it is not It’s peace, rest

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Those that depart shouldn’t be pitied The pain that is felt is because the dead leave the living

It’s something selfish

Or maybe not

Those that leave will be missed

One will not be there to give and get anymoreThat’s the inevitable hole

That fills with time, evocations, acceptanceSome say the ones that leave can take care of the ones staying here

From wherever it is they go

I’d believe it, for you, my baby girl…

Sometimes, it appears inadvertently

Others, we plainly see it coming before us

It can present itself as a companion, be there at one’s side all the timeSometimes it sneaks up from behind…

Death reaps us all I feel I particularly would like to meet It

To know

And, surely, to escape”

Was I the ‘companion’, here, above him? Had he sensed me? I was certain that hehad serenely sensed the mantis, sneaking up behind him.

Then, he increased the speed of the automobile, who knows why; purpose,

survival, whim? The mantis behind did so also, but his was not as fast; it was a somewhatold model. He lagged behind. There was no real chance of him getting near again.

The night driver had the impression that he was delving through symbolism:

“I know

Someday, it will catch up with meOr maybe it awaits further down the road…

It just let me know I leave it behind, tonight

It’s not my time yet”

He never truly knew how close he had been. However, he was feeling better, as he

reflected that he had gotten a sign tonight, and was thankful that he had. In his soul, hemust have really been thankful for his life. That night, he must have had the assistance of

his true watchers, invisible but perceptible. With his new course, he accompanied himself

with a softly sung song. Nice. I knew that one, and it was quite appropriate.I slowed down my course, alighted, and waited. I was going to hitchhike.

The mantis pulled over right in front of me. We exchanged the usual speech and I

got in his vehicle. I could feel his uncanny excitement, which he literally transpired. He

was not talking, so, I did.

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“You were not looking forward to picking up a man tonight, were you?”

“What…?! What do you mean?” he asked with a sticky voice, as he turned at me,

startled, or as startled as one such as this can get.“I mean it is rather chilly tonight.”

“What?”

“The night, cold as a blade, did you not hear me well?”“What do you mean?” Various confusing thoughts besieged him, but nothing

concrete. He needed control. He felt that he had to do something.

“Here, in the car? Will it not be messy?” I said.He stopped the car. I played nervous.

“What are you doing? Why did you…?”

“I need to check on something.” He got out, and walked like a stray dog with its

tail between its legs. His head hanged low, beaten-like. Aside from this, he looked likenobody. He went around the car and got to my side. The gleam of the knife in his hand

was his better way to express himself. “Get out,” he said. I did. He tied my hands in my

rear and we started walking away from the car and the highway. He was behind me, with

his weapon against the nape of my neck in one hand, and with the other, he pushed meand yanked at my binds.

A good distance away from anything, I transmitted to him, mind to mind, to look behind, for he was being followed. He turned around, suspiciously, and saw nothing. I

did it once more, and the same happened. One third time, he let go of me and turned

around fully, squalling, “whose there!”, to no avail. When he turned back, I was not

there. He looked everywhere. This was totally unanticipated and impossible. He wasconfounded. This had never happened; in his world, these things never did; he was

always in control. For a brief second, he blamed himself for having picked up a man,

instead of a woman. Then, I pronounced:“Walk your way, and you will get there. Be still, and nothing will come. Cross

another’s path, and you will stray from yours.”

I was exactly over him, in the air, playing angel of vengeance yet once more. Whowas I avenging, I do not know. I am possessed by this delusion ever and anon, and I do

precisely the opposite of what I had just preached.

Now, he was veritably out of himself. But still, no emotion from him. It was veryinstinctual, as everything in him. He felt the prey now. Just as the hunted can hardly

think, he simply started running, farther away from his car, I must add. He did not look

back. After several minutes, when he paused to catch his breath, feeling less in danger

from the fact that he did not see me, I greeted him, from behind. He faced me, even moreflustered.

“Tonight, you are the unlucky one, my friend. And you just got lucky. I shall

release you,” I said to him. I grabbed him by one arm. With the other, he tried to stab me, but I held it as well. I crushed his bones. Still, he did not open his mouth. Still, he did not

feel anything. I wanted to know if he would feel any remorse, fear for his life, anything.

But he did not. He was an insect, from the strictly biological perspective. All he felt wasthe physical pain, which was not small in degree. He writhed and panted, that was all. I

let go of him, and he blundered away, his broken arms dangling. I caught up with him,

throwing him down to the ground. I stepped on one of his knees and smashed it.

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“Say something, anything,” I urged him. He only looked at me. I crushed his other

knee. More pain, that was all. He was tough. The small mind he had had all along in his

base life was gone now. Heart, he had never developed. I wondered if there was a soul inhim. I sat on a boulder, and watched him for a while. He was suffering, lying there, but

he withstood it. I did not desire him to lose consciousness, so I grabbed him by the

underarm, and we went up.With him in my hold, I reached the ocean. I was amidst that alluring darkness

once more.

“Take a look at this,” I told him. His eyes did not even focus any longer. “It is beautiful. This is the last, and maybe the only beautiful sight you will ever…” It was

futile. He was bewildered. I held him from both armpits, and spoke this to his grimacing

face: “What is the difference between you and I? Are we the same…? Are we brothers?

Does this redeem me, even vaguely?” I crushed his thorax. I felt his ribs crack. Breath burst out of him. I let him loose. He fell, like a dead weight ; it was as though he were

being swallowed. I did not see him plunge into the water. I was too high up. He just

disappeared on his way down.

He should have kept to his method . The purest kind of Moloch, he was: those thatnever know that they are.

I wandered off, like a dead leaf in the wind. Should I let myself drop too? Would Idrown after a while? Would I bury myself under the sea bottom, for the faint, filtered

light of the sun not to hurt me? I had not the will. I must have felt so empty that I became

unconscious.

My sense called me back, just before dusk, so I instinctively headed back to land. No matter who or what I encounter, I can never evade myself. However, if I can

view my reflection back, hideous as it can get, that means that I am alive. I exist. The

secret is to see with the heart. And thus I feel, even if it is bad. Otherwise, I would beanother insect.

I killed him; I did not kill me. Projection to the extreme. I do not believe that one

shall be missed, though. But, really, what do I know? Nothing… if not how to blunder.I must get some sleep.

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IT IS ONE

A horizontality that yields peace, these soft lines. Under the full moon, my sun.

Purple and lilac, the sky and the snow. It must be marvellous by day, the blue and thewhite. The calm here is vast. The gale, the Great Spirit’s cool breath, as they say, strokes

and moulds water, land, animal, human. They must let themselves be, there is no choice.

The snow people. They are one with everything. They only take what they require, thesesurvivors, these teachers. I watch them over the distance, and they feel me, vaguely,

though not discern what I am. Do they sense life or death near? Do they feel menaced or

cradled by the night? I would not probe further, for my sake. By now, their endurance is

enlightenment. This whiteness is like a cloud, and they are only one step away frominhabiting the Realm of Clouds. Wits of genius, talented hands, creating utensils such art,

from almost nothing –rather, of all nature provides, which is ever enough. They seem as

one and a half tomorrows up from the rest of the world. What I feel when I see them is as

if they, being a bevy, were all one person. Quiet. What is there to say, to talk about, whenthey are so close to the truth? When life and death walk beside you, the journeying on the

edge sharpens you. And they know. They have a secret, and all would be saved shouldthey ask what it is. But they do not. Later on, they heard, but did not listen.

They reminded me of the Bedouins. Elementary peoples live in the truth. They all

are my favourite people. Other endangered species.

Wintertime, in the land of ever winter. I can remain longer, I mean, roving about;the days are short lived here at this time. And it is then when I get one great sustenance of

mine, if not the greatest, from the few: the aurora borealis. It seems to me that, as every

place has its balance of nature’s beauty and fury, this wonder suffices in plenty for themerciless cold at the earth’s ends. I fancy the angels, those little enlighteners sprinkled up

there called stars, would warm the hearts of the dwellers of these whereabouts by

flapping their wings, what is called scintillation, making the waves of light, thevaricoloured rippling and whirling that fosters me mostly with multitudes of green; a

green fire dancing on high. I can hear its tenuous music, as though far away –maybe too

far away from me. Add to this my lady moon, majestically luminous, and you can witnessthe empyrean. It can move you to tears. It has that power to set you free.

The north peoples deified them, quite rightly. Even though the Valkirior’s errand

is to collect the souls of fallen heroes, they take me too. I too am fallen.

How could they have feared this beautiful wonder, in other vicinities of theworld? Around these whereabouts, they knew this was part of who they were. What

makes the difference of perception, after all?

I headed south. I cannot go on for long without this other kind of verdant, thetrees, and the cold can transfix one until there is nothing more than that, outside and

inside. And if you can just as well go, then, you go. I am seduced by nature, indeed. Any

wild place fills me with reverence, but I particularly am fond of these rocky shores, thetall trees, the mist and the coolness of the atmosphere, the sea, the wood speech. It is all

haunted, hallowed. Life thrives exuberantly in the night. Sometimes, I find myself so

elated here, that I take to the air, penetrate deep in the forest, flying very fast, dodging the

trees for enjoyment, or I speed over the water, cutting the undulating surface with my

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hands, or do as dolphins, but inversely: I glide over and plunge in, just as they, in their

underwater race, fling themselves out. There is nothing comparable to the feeling of

water. It is embracing. My hypersensitive skin works more like a conductor than acontainer, and it turns almost everything into most welcome pleasure. Once I deemed

myself diffuse, but now I see myself outreaching. Water is the blood of the world.

Other times, I light a small fire, and I feel.Given I was to this one time, on the bank of an inlet, when I felt strong presences

nearby, one of them human. I extinguished the fire and sought it. I was curious, due to the

time of the night. As I got close, I sensed fear emanating from the human. I reached aconfrontation scene. There was a young man, stiffened before a mountain lion that held

him in its eyes at a very short range. Both were assessing their situation. However, the

more afraid the young one was, the more the feline smelled it, and thus, it jumped upon

him. The young man did what he could; he was all instinct now, and his conscience hadleft him. Notwithstanding all efforts to defend himself, he was going to die. I only stared,

but then, I felt a sudden urge to save him. I got between them in no time, and grabbed the

big cat away. While the boy was lying on the ground, panting and bleeding, I wrestled

with the panther. It was amazingly exciting. It clawed at me, tried to bite off my face andmy neck, it growled and roared, as if wrathful. The animal was possessed by kill . I was

slashed and bitten severely on my arms and chest, I felt the ardour and the pain of thewounds. And the heat in me burned in a driving fashion. I had not fed for many days, so I

was not as strong as I could have been. I realized that I had been enjoying the experience

only too much for my own good, as the cougar was tearing me to pieces. I did not mean

to hurt it, so I turned it around and, taking it by its tail, I hurled it off, relatively far. Iheard and felt its tail snap in this action. When the animal fell, it bellowed in affliction,

and scurried away. Now I was panting and bleeding. I searched for the young man, but he

had gone.The smell of his blood and mine mingled in the air. I was catching my breath.

Then, I grinned, next, I smiled, after that, I chuckled, and I ended up laughing, and my

laughter became so loud that it turned into a roar. I was shining, with a strange feeling of splendour, and its concomitant all-encompassing pleasure. I was getting high, and, as it

happens, totally unconsciously and inadvertently when I feel so, I was hovering, with my

arms and legs spread wide, as my open-mouth smile; strange as it may sound, I cannottell you how good it feels not to have to conceal my set of dagger teeth. Slowly, I

descended, let myself get sober at my natural rhythm, and walked back to where I had

camped; the hurt retuned gradually, in less degree. My clothes were torn and bloody, as

some parts of my body. I plunged into the water. The wounds stung, but this pain was far from unbearable. Undoubtedly, a mortal would have died.

As the nights went by, I fancied with the idea of grappling with a cat, again. Then

I considered matches with other animals. But later on, I realized: they were not my playthings. We were not natural enemies, so it would not be natural. And animals have

such noble spirits, I had to respect them. Thus, my wounds all healed up, I wandered

away from the region. We are only guests here; I, most of all.Years passed, I wandered here and there, and my road spontaneously took me

back to that secluded corner of the world, a favourite of mine. I had never bothered the

folk that inhabited the closest to the point where I was the last time. Why, I do not know.

Nevertheless, this time, I decided that I would ‘get to know’ them. From a hill, by trees

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and big boulders that overlooked their settlement, I gazed on. Their simple,

straightforward, yet wise ways reminded me of children; such organized innocence. They

were quite pure, but human altogether; they had their weapons, and used them againsttheir neighbours, from time to time. I did not know any other people so close to the earth,

to nature. They were wild, free… yet. They were kin somewhat to those up north, whom I

had met the last time I had been around here, so there were similarities that reminded meof that tightness between every element that exists, that veneration and connection they

felt toward everything that surrounded them. In this paradisiacal setting, who could not

feel so, I asked myself, for I had felt the same. One of the most admirable things to mewas that their speech did not waste any words, and it was poetic in itself, on account of

their nature. Symbolism and truth were the same for them, as I learned then that they

truly are. Though they were basically diurnal, their ceremonies performed in the night

time depicted not only their everyday habits, but also their myths and origins, allinterwoven with cycles, coalescence, respect, animals, spirits, ordinary men and women

involved in fantastic fables, and a deceptive simplicity which is really profundity. Their

portentous totem poles filled me with awe, as I felt the life in them –I wanted one, and it

made me feel childish, but then, are not toys totems for children? They only skinned the bark off the trees to reveal their ancestors’ souls. Everything has a soul, one only has to

look beneath. This people suffered hardships and held celebrations, in the middle of aroutine that did not seem to be tedious for them in the least, probably because idleness

hinders survival, and they were ever busy. They lived in abundance, and knew it, and it

was indiscriminately for everybody and everything. That is true opulence. Wide awake

they were; beheld the invisible in the visible. They knew as well, and it was through thisgift that they tilled in themselves, this vision of theirs, that I was reached.

One night, when I arrived to my usual vantage spot, I encountered the claw of an

animal, deliberately arranged with other ornaments. I did not doubt too long. I knew thatit was meant for me to find it. Around my neck I put it on, and I felt magically alight. A

couple of nights went by, swift-footed. Somehow, I had looked forward to more ‘gifts’,

but I got nothing more. Thus, utterly unexpected was his presence, when he appeared. Itwas sharp. The man walking towards me was not a common man. I got a sensation:

healing man. He was not afraid of me, and he knew that I perceived this. He glimmered,

and he was powerful, though there was a benevolent aura surrounding him, a serenity. Hewas a wise one, I felt. I could not tell how old. He was beyond it, though this does not

mean that he was soon to die; he was quite alive. He smiled, briefly. Was he listening to

my thoughts? I bowed. He saluted me, and with his torch beckoned me to follow him. We

walked for some while, away from the settlement, side by side, though he kept a certain‘safe’ distance. He looked at me when I perceived this, and nodded, almost

imperceptibly. We got to a clearing, and he made a fire on the ground; this simple act had

me bewitched by itself. He sat. I did the same, not opposite him, but slightly closer,facing the fire. He stared at it, and spoke:

“Will you harm us?” From all I could have imagined that he would say, I never

would have guessed this. Yet, it made perfect sense.“No,” I said.

“Are you here to deliver a message?”

“No.”

“What do you want?” he asked, his eyes on me. I did not know what to reply.

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“Forgive my intrusion. I do not want anything … that I am not given with

consent,” I replied. He turned his penetrating eyes back to the fire. I did the same, and we

remained so for quite a while. I envisaged myself sitting at a circle of men such as him,staring at the fire. We stared at this sun-drop, in the center. It was a gathering; a time to

share, to rest, to recall, to ponder, to unite. A safe moment, conquering the night,

vanquishing the dark, warming up the soul, absorbing light through the eyes and the skin.The allure of the fire. I stared at it, and witnessed as one who lived infinite winters ago,

through my blood, when it was a moody and mysterious demon. A good spirit, giving,

but angry at times. It was to be tended and venerated. A small sun, a center, attracting our flames to gravitate around it; light summoning light. Light enhancing light. All becoming

one light. Gradually, I returned from this ceremony, with a very tenuous and unruffled

grogginess. I had never experienced anything like it. I looked at him, and I knew not only

that he had been there, but also that he had taken me there. He stood up and said,“Remain in peace.” He left.

The following nights, we met at the same place where he made the fire. Even

though I did not disclose anything concerning myself beforehand, he identified me as a

demon, a lost soul. He let me know that, even though I was dangerous, he would risk himself in my company. He said that it was fate that had brought us together. Trust I felt

from him, but he had an instinctual wary sense toward me. I was as surprised as grateful.I was being beheld, and seen through, and it made me feel extraordinarily alive. I was

recognized as what I was, and would not be repelled or chased after; I was certain.

Respected I was, and I felt worthwhile. Of course, I would correspond to such kindness.

He told me about life in their nation. How they believed that all living things areentitled to the same rights as they were, since all are part of the earth, The Mother, and

that any place or sight was thus venerable. From the ashes of their forefathers over this

Mother they came, and from their ashes their descendants would rise. They were notowners of anything, but shared and took, with permission, only what they required to

exist, as every other living being did. He said that when people stray from nature, their

heart becomes hard, and that if they stop feeling towards nature, later, they stop feelingtowards other people, and so, a bad death is brought about. In nature, one can grasp

directly the mysteries of life, which lead to a good afterlife. The Great Spirit that created

the earth and the sky is not hidden, but in everything that surrounds us. The dead watchover the living, and do not forget, as long as the living do not forget about them. One of

the things that struck me most was that they regarded any place where a sad or joyous

event had happened as holy. I recognized this such a subtle yet immense truth. He

manifested that his occupation encompassed healing, protection, guidance, relief frommishap, and being the interpreter between the supernatural and humans. Also, that every

ritual conveyed a specific meaning and purpose, be it fertility, climate, a prosperous hunt,

anything; he said that rituals, no matter the size, are important, because they prepare theway. I was told that there comes a time in the life of a person, when he or she must

become the individual that they are meant to be, and they set off in a solitary vision quest ,

upon which they shall get signs from their guardian spirit. At this, he stopped. I thoughthe was going to proceed; so taken I was by him and his wisdom; in a way, I felt as if he

was singing a song. It seemed to me that I was beholding a sort of Eden, a wild Eden. A

real Eden.

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All that he said was not only beautiful, but true as well. He, they, had solved the

riddles of humanity in a most sublime manner. They were not lacking of the lowly in any

human, but this was exactly what made them so. And they acknowledged this. They weredetached, but seizing at the same time. And they viewed death as part of life. A step.

Something not dreaded. That, indeed, was a relevant theme for me. I told him that there

were some peoples that had a sickly fear of death, and that, if they could, they would liveforever. I made him know, somewhat exasperatedly, that this was absurd, that they

plainly did not know what immortality was like. He understood what I talked about.

Some of my sorrow was revealed, and felt by him. I was not aware that he had felt it long before this statement of mine.

“I think humans always want what they cannot have…” I said. “…Some of them;

pardon such word that includes everyone… All the while they are wishing for half their

things, thoughts, days, dear ones, times, bodies, places, passions, to remain so forever, asthey would have them, knowing by constant proof that it cannot be. Such deep and

pervasive nonsense. What the reason is for this yearning of… immortality, I wonder…

They are so afraid of death, even though so many wish for it, ever so secretly, as

respite…”“Death is part of life, and both are what make up existence. We can enjoy the sun

but we cannot hide the shadow that every single one of us casts. It is like day and night,life and death; each one has their turn… as you do…”

Away from day, I cast no shadow, I thought, and it hurt. I am the shadow. This

closeness I was taking pleasure in, even stealing, perhaps, created an illusion for me, a

lovely illusion, dissolved as smoke in that moment. I am a creature of the night, of death,in death. No sun for me –if not for this. How could I have forgotten?

“Yes, you come from the night, and so, you do have a turn, a part, in the big

cycle.”“And I always thought I did not. I felt…”

“You feel… the heart is there.”

My absolver. My acknowledger. All my guilt ever made me so blind not to seewhat he saw. I mean, I wanted to believe he was right. There it was… again.

“I think it is the eternal in us,” he said. “Our spirit. It is in all we do, and we pour

it on everything. Perhaps we give it back, as the Great Spirit is everything. We want all asour own soul. Our reference is inside us. What makes us human, thinking, sense, is this

ever-presence we feel… Maybe it is this sense-nonsense game what keeps them

stumbling, confusing and blocking themselves. Useless… All we have to do is let life

flow freely, and feel. In feeling we are won by our soul, this is how we are reacquaintedwith the eternal, when we forget by thinking too much.”

He simply did not miss, ever. I was in awe, and glad for the fact that my memory

was very precise. I would not forget these words.“It is ironic how an eternal being such as I is as they would be, and still…”

“You have a reason and a place for yourself in this Realm. Behold: life is like a

bead string. Each of us is a bead in the endless string of creation. We are joined to others before us; they are the reason we are here. Had they not done all they did, things would

be somewhat different. Because we are here, and are doing what we are doing, there will

be some of us tomorrow. Then again, perhaps not. If we surrender here, because it seems

too hard, impossible, or simply out of neglect, they will not have much of a chance.”

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“Stop dreaming today, and there will not be a reality tomorrow.”

“It has never happened, though. Instinctually, we seek to prevail, and to continue.

But we also seem to harm, sabotage, and even wish to destroy, and terminate one another,and even our own selves, at times. The beads before us were so. Despite knowing this, we

are so as well, in different ways, which in the end are as they have always been. But there

is more danger in this, because we can lose our soul. When hungry, we might believegreed will feed. Hostile, we become like cornered animals, and thus, it is killing or being

killed. It all could end. Every single thing, every bead, is important. We are decisive.

Each of us binds the necklace together. And like the web of the spider, whose patternturns ever outwards, between the past and the future, we dream presently.”

“I hope that you are right.”

“Do not hope, believe. You are a most wretched being, yet, you are ever so rich.

Do you not realize it?”“Sometimes I do. I am too complicated. Excuse my seeming reticence, I… ”

“Why are you ever seeking absolution? No one can give it to you, for no one has

been you. Therefore, you give it to yourself. And you are very simple. You are like the

fire. Like the demon that is fire. Powerful, even when it is the smallest. Untouchable, yetit makes itself be strongly sensed. Always wants to grow. The thrill of beauty and peril.

Just as it brings light and warmth, it can engulf easily, become torture. And theentrancement it grants: looks at you straight in the eyes, into the heart. Never a dull

moment in the presence of fire. The restless spirit, wild-dancing demon. With it, peoples

dance, in ritual euphoria, and sometimes get blinded and burnt. Other times, it feels as

even the tiniest flame is out, the saviour flame, and then, there is nothing but absolutedarkness and cold. There is nothing…”

It took me some time to be able to speak again. He had touched my very core, and

yet, I am so cold. I thanked him, and told him that I had never been so recognized, soacknowledged, and that now I believed that indeed we had encountered each other for a

cause.

“The Great Spirit has put you here for a purpose. You are pervaded by It aseverything is. You are here to be acknowledged, as a living, feeling being. We speak the

same, so listen: we are all brothers and sisters. You are part of every thing that is. You are

not as alone as you believe you are.”In this moment, everything that I was, that I had done, that I had gone through,

was coming at once in me, as though the sky fell down on me, stars and all, as if a giant

wave with all the contents of the ocean were thrust at me. It was overwhelming, to say

the least; I was the eye of a tornado of meaning. Squeezed by this mighty truth, afissionable tear that fell from each of my eyes represented all my condition.

“Do you see? There is your heart, and it is grateful, as it ought to be… You are

wild, but your mind does not allow you to run free. ”“I am torn.”

“I also think too much, on occasion. Nevertheless, I got to a conclusion: one of

the secrets of life, at least for those who think too much, who must think to live, who liveto think, and who do it with the heart, searching for it, never finding it, even when we

despair for it, is this precisely: maybe we should not look for what we will not find… It is

not about taming life either, even if it were possible, or letting it tame you. My heart tells

me that it is about plunging into the river of life, and letting it take you. Perhaps leave a

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mark for others; sometimes, unbeknownst to us, we help others make their mark: most

human beings would therefore be unknown heroes. We are to try not to hit the rocks, or

at least not so hard; do our best not to drown. The river is ever-changing, even if it doesnot seem so: it can be quiet, turn turbulent, deep, shallow, it can fall from a height

sometimes, and sometimes, it is all at the same time. You have to enjoy how the water

feels all around the body; drink it, for it is always fresh; flow in this tangible stream. Youhave to make the best of the trip, of the moment, not ask where or why; it is the how what

matters. The current goes one direction only; you cannot go back, for good or bad, and

what comes is only a promise. You can just be ready, or at least willing, otherwise, it isvery difficult. In the end, there is an ocean where all rivers lead to. When we get to the

end of our river, we blend with the ocean; then, we ascend lightly to the skies, come back

down to the earth like rain, and we grow again, we flow again. I say it is about a peaceful

and natural release, but dynamic and attentive. I believe it, because it has come after along time of searching, and it came like a quiet lightning from above, through me to you,

right on this moment.”

“But I have no end. I do not seem to end.”

“Heed what I say. I am repeating: in the end, I will rest; in the end, I will becomplete; in the end, I will be delivered; in the end, I will know; in the end, I will be

changed; in the end, I will return; in the end, I will begin. Everyone, me, and you too, wego through this all the time. At some instants, we realize it, but mostly, we do not.”

“Yes… We die, and are born again, continuously. Each in their own pace and

fashion.”

“You are in a constant vision quest, an extended one. One I could never know.”“I am. And, in it, are you my guiding spirit?”

“I wonder now, for you could be mine.”

“I am the very contrary of a guardian spirit. You know it.”“Still, you have prayers, symbols, songs to teach. I perceive them in you.”

“I could not…You teach me.”

“Tell me something. Anything.”“Whatever do you mean?”

I tried to scan his mind, which I had not done so far, I realized.

“Why do you wish to see my thoughts without my permission? That is notrespectful.”

“I apologize. I do it out of custom. You are right.”

“It is very simple. Just tell me it .”

I looked into the fire, then above, and, spontaneously, I voiced this:“Inside me… my insides, it feels as deep as the sky above… all that is in there, in

here, shines like those stars in the dark; there is also a moon, moody, reappearing

occasionally; a sun even, in my pursuit of a light that would chase away my darkness, myweakness, and its refusal… To be alone, not solitary, but alone, feels like not existing…

Loneliness is such a torment… You said that I must believe that I am not alone, for I am

not; I can know that, but feel it…? If I feel alone, I am alone. I cannot avoid that… Thereis no torment such as this one, as one must endure it by oneself, without any assistance,

any sympathy, any… one… The eternal fire… But I deserve the punishment…”

“Then, do you see? That is your message. Into your profundities you have

reached. You demonstrate that we all are connected, and when you feel unconnected, you

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ache and you wither, because you are a part, because you belong. That is how creation

functions, for everybody and everything, at their own level. To grasp this confers

protection. And punishment, for what? For being yourself? For behaving as it is your nature to behave? You are what you are, and though you would be something else, you

cannot be. It seems there is only one way to go, for you: to invite back into you that other

you whom you cast out once. Only you can do this, no one else.”“Ahh… you, hallowed man… I feel warm. Now. I feel existent. I feel .”

“You are.”

“I am…”“You cannot go on looking for a truth that does not apply to you. You must walk

the road of your own truth.”

“Indeed… indeed, I must… and, on the road of one’s own truth, one becomes

split, into many selves, by all the axe blows existence deals at you… One stumbles uponrocks and wonders if going around them or getting them off. One must walk through mud

and desert, and get blistered, but these blisters contain holy water from oneself. One goes

under bright moon, and then, black night, and gets to understand rhythm. One admires

flowers and then feels life is a garden, and the need to play gardener, to pick one, and go‘loves me, loves me not’ with her. One can fly as birds, but wishes to be as earthbound as

humans are. One is naked, and dresses oneself up with proud, elegant, and originalthoughts. One is haunted by spirits without bodies, and bodies without spirit. One is

cursed with invisibility and silence, as one says: your eyes are not my eyes, your ears are

not my ears. One is watched by one’s shadow, which is ever willing to finally swallow

one up. One is at times hot, at others cold, and then, it rains. One crawls, runs, keeps stillat moments, never knowing if time does the same or why, and if it matters. One has to

bleed for oneself, as nobody bleeds the same. One may go around circles, several times

on some, and perhaps, the whole road is one big circle. Yes… On this road, one issurrounded by signs, and none tell which direction one must take. One meets others at

crossroads, staying as long as it takes, and realizes most use the main road, and few do

not. There, one hears the news, and also learns anew what one keeps forgetting: the verytruth comes in the end. And one will be lucky to find the road can be widened as two

merge into one. One sees with the heart, and feels with the eyes. One is often challenged

with the ages old riddle: what is this thing called Love, that complicates everything, thatmurders and redeems humankind, at the same time? And all I am certain of is that its

realness, the realness of love, comes from that little giant that lives forever free and

young inside some people: who they were before, in innocence…”

“You have spoken.”I felt strange. I had never told before my personal innermost but indirectly. This

was I , being seen and listened to. Somehow, I felt bigger. And closer.

He extracted his ceremonial pipe from his bundle, and lit it up; once more, he bewitched me. He smoked, waved some of it toward himself, and then he handed it over

to me. I told him that I could not, physically. He nodded, and said that he would smoke

on my behalf. This small occurrence suddenly sent me far away from there, from where Ihad been. I felt bad, but I had to come back, for my sake.

“Tell me about the sun. About the day.”

“The sun is the eye of the Great Spirit. It is the ruler of the sky. The giver of life.

It is hope. It is like the smile of the people, or the twinkle in the eyes of your beloved. It

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makes everything grow and shine: from plants to hearts. The birds salute it when it

arrives and when it departs. Under it, one can see. Colors come to life. Men hunt. Women

prepare the meal. Children play. Every four-legged one, winged one, or swimmer, isengaged in its own actions. It makes one feel safe that it is there, and one can toil or be

idle in its embrace, all the same. One feels taken care of… It is how truth feels like…

That is the sun. That is the day.”I felt it. I saw it all, the best I could. It was lovely. I was sorry that I could not use

it such a metaphor, but only as a dream. Perhaps on the morrow.

We had shared much. The last nights of our time together we did not talk much.And he must have sensed what I could not bring myself to do. Depart. But I was feeling

that restlessness that takes hold of me after an indefinite time of my stay in one place,

and, besides, I was feeling immensely hungry, which could make me do something I

would regret later, and I know my regret to last a long, long time. But, quite honestly, Iwas getting too attached. One thing leads to another, I suppose. It was the hour to go.

“What are your thoughts on your claw?”

“I have no words. But it makes me feel, well, protected. It makes me feel good,

here, where it hangs next to. I thank you for it.”“It belongs to you. It always has.”

“Always has?”“You asked me if I could probably be your guiding spirit. I could be. Usually, it is

an animal though. And this is prodigious, and almost comical, because I believe you are a

guiding spirit of mine.”

“But what sign have I given to you? What wisdom?”“You know that you have, and that you are. And we share the same guardian

spirit.”

“Really? Which one is it?”“Look inside, and into the past,” said he, solemnly. I stared at the fire, I do not

know for how long.

“The mountain lion… you… you were there! You were the boy! You almostdied! That is the origin of those scars on your arms, that scar on your neck!”

He smiled, for the second time in my presence. Most certainly, I was glowing.

“I did not thank you then,” said he. “I thank you now. As you can see, I have twoguiding spirits. I am fortunate. I can brag about it!”

“Well, I had never saved anyone before. I enjoyed it. It was quite a change for me.

Excuse my mordant nature.”

“Perhaps I should have presented you with the cat’s fangs, instead of its claw…”This was such particular humour by two like us. I relished it. I know that he did

also.

“Do you know what you are?” he asked me. “You are a hybrid. The mixture of the feline and a man.”

It fascinated me. I was speechless. The more one is confronted with truth, the less

words are necessary. It was essence. I was being told about myself by someone whoreflected who I was, and not the other way around. A sensation of glory filled me gently.

When the night was about to be over, he rose up and said, “Good journey, my

brother. May you find, and still, may you keep looking…”

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I did not watch him go. To me, he vanished, like dreams do. I was alone again;

enormously alone. But, somehow, I was not. I had a brother. And he had told me that I

had myriads of brothers and sisters. I believed it, then. Somehow, I believe it still.

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