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Alex Grey. “Wonder – Zena Gazing at the Moon”.

“I’m growing weak slowly.
Maybe I’ll be not myself when they find me.”
Silvio Rodríguez.

I have lived countless centuries, and thounsands of lives have passed through the incorruptible filaments of my soul. This is just one of many. If I briefly stop by in its tarnished moments once in a while, to observe and discriminate one and other form, it’s just as a sort of readjustment to a device that needs a feedback in cyclic discharges so it can keep on performing efficiently.
I go across strange and changing places of this world as a restless shadow seeking for its roots. Before my inquisitive eyes, landscapes, cities and nations rise up and fall down. I walk into them as a scalpel dissecting the deepest fibers of its vital tissues. Stealthy, undetectable, I move among crowds and people going and coming, pushing forward and retreating through the sea of time.
Every dawn, every sunset, nights and days with their lives, their deaths and their eagerness, every voice, every question and every answer, have been stored behind the frontiers of my chest. I feel its gears crackling in a ceaseless rattle of absorption and retention, hoarding every detail for some posterity without horizons nor arrival point, sending out their immeasurable myriads of figures and forms, their indecipherable signs, towards a space riddled with stars which have forgotten how to return my call.
Where will my signals go in the silent hollow of the constellations? Will they arrive at some port, at some face that still persists in tracking the possible strand of a shipwrecked message? I close my eyes under a sky curved by stars and darkness, I reached out my body, I aim away my face, I open my senses to the bunches of light on that firmament, and wrapped by the chrysalis of the most portentous silence, I wait any pulse, any vibration, a fleeting flutter confirming the edge of an answer.
Into the stolid ocean of the night, I hear out. Only a voice reaches me, it says my name, here, in the closest proximity. It calls me to go back into the warm of its presence; it surrounds me from behind with its arms, and leans softly its face on my back. It asks me what I am doing there, in the middle of the cold night. I answer what through eons of lives and stories I have learned should be said: nothing. The voice subsides, it quietens down as the indiscernible purr of my chest, which spreads out to feel its caresses, that unutterable brush of a body on another body, which conveys its subtle throbs in a language that in countless lives I barely manage to understand.
I let myself go, I yield to its requests and I go back to the shelter. And the ritual of touches and whispers and lips is repeated again, as it has been since the most ancient decades, with slight variations according to the place and time. I have learned how to adapt myself to its rhythm, how to dive into the clash of its movement, how to stop the buzz of my mind to collect every posture, every moment and translate them into figures and numbers. Into the void of an unvoiced space, with no return signal, some brief shavings of muteness in the vastness of time become irrelevant.
In the fugacity of those instants I feel once more the warm of a link broken since generations, and I sink into it, slowly, step by step, forgetting in its sensual dark corners the loneliness of my own being. And I feel again, a signal, here, now, in this very ground, in these lives that I cross ahead through millennia of neglect, waiting for another trace that maybe never reaches me. And that maybe will find me some day, deserted of myself, with no memories about where my home was, nor where I could have come from, once, far away, among the stars.

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