reading when i can

From war and love, you return even more ignorant than when you first set out.

Because dignity, if not inherited, can be contagious.

When there’s no hope left, we turn objects into art— a sermon we leave behind for the generations to come.

Summer draws near. With it, a yearning for life even though you’re still alive.

War’s never satisfied with flesh.

The stomach functions much like the brain: / when it has nothing to think about, it feeds off memories.

It is said that the most ordinary among us is a written book that exists in heaven, a book so huge that human eyes cannot read it. That’s where everything is record—what we’ve done, said, thought, felt, even what hasn’t happened yet. Who could imagine that a human body—some square centimetres that were once only a cell— could contain so much space for history?

The body is slow, clumsy; it rarely surprises you. It takes you to places your imagination has explored long in advance.

It was terribly noisy. Impossible to follow a conversation. So I only followed the timbre of his voice, the deep, mature, inner timbre congested with calcium, like drops of water falling from cave ceilings to the ground, from earth to earth the shortest journey for sound but the longest for us mortals.

So one day, you find yourself exhibited in two separate museums at once.

Or the musical chairs game called ‘love’, where there are less empty seats than people. If you don’t want to be the last one standing you must predict when the music will stop. (Who, though, has really succeeded?)

Language is erosive. It makes us recluses, a wind through the canyons carving our palaeontological eras for everyone to read.

my eyes glued to a constellation (they call these types ‘dreamers’)

Who was this reader? A man or woman? Maybe lying in bed, without anyone around, heavily underlining, several places in red, or commenting in blue while waiting at an airport for a delayed flight. But the loops that circle words are isobars— one needs to have reached rock-bottom to understand these marks. And now it’s my turn to add my own geography. There’s hardly any space left, not even for shadows. The black ring of a coffee cup and the careless ash of a cigarette are my only traces. My fear of clarity.

Even the shore itself is a lure for the dark waters, high tides under a full moon, apotheosis of the universe.

Names leap ahead like hunting hounds, with the belief they clear the road of the journey’s unexpected obstructions. And we call ‘destiny’ our common unknown, a genderless, unconjugated, unspecified name. Its authority hangs on one shoulder like the tunic of a Roman senator leaving only one arm bare and free.

When a child is born, we name it after an ancestor, and so the recycling continues. Not out of nostalgia, but from our fear of the unknown.