This tendency of ours to treat notions and terms as if they are slaves mandated by digits and sounds is so overly human. Just because we contrived them we arbitrarily believe that they belong to us. As if it is us that will carry on eternally, when they will be gone.

Will we ever seriously think that they too wear off in the same manner everything that bears a name wears off? Or will it seem funny to us to watch out not to break the delicate being of words, and we will grimace in our call for solemnity without it crossing our mind that grimaces are silence?

We survey dots on the map, lines in the clock, and with one mouthful we stick labels. Here is sadness, here is joy, here is death, everything falling under the Aesthetics Department of Taxation – located in a trailer – a duty stamp with no lump price but what about the interest rates? Here is the beginning, here is the exaggeration and Carl Friedrich Gauss, the great silence, and consequently the end.

But hold on, wait a second. What if the end doesn’t want to come?

You proudly wave the banners of the unknown and you carve inside your lids the Moment. And around the proud beauty that drowns you, you have built those large curvy parentheses in order to allow your brilliant calamity to rage within. And you think that this is what defeat is like, with a beginning, a middle, and an end?

And what if the end doesn’t come?

In the small aquarium you have for a chest you attempt to jam typhoons, sirens, shipwrecks, yet the small fleet you drag behind you, without having ever faced a torpedo in fear, reminds you that even when they are still transparent, the square windows define space. And what you define will always remain restricted.

In great ease you sing about wrecks, in great pulse you fall silent, and die. You say that “tomorrow” doesn’t exist but could it simply be that your guts hold you on only that much? For the major wounds your prepare brine, for the minor moments you compose epitaphs, one line made out of purpura that cuts through the end.

But hold on. What if the end doesn’t come?


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