The Talk

I consider it a big weakness and I would really be
depressed if
I would have to explain to you, in plain language,
with words suspicious, raw, eaten up and useless
all this that I feel.
There are everyday, completely ordinary things,
that are a secret to many people.

“The strongest door is the one that is wide open,
according to an ancient Tibetan script.

There is a talk that someone will discover tomorrow, but
maybe nobody will even try to discover it.
But you must try already to embrace it with thoughts.
Because that is the language of meanings, and not dialect of names.

There are cultures of gestures, breathing and sight.
There is time of times and area of areas.
There is beauty of beauty. There is truth about truth,
reality of real, will of will and power of power.
There is movement of movement, thinking of thinking,
… there is also love of love, my son.

I dare to use words less and less often, because
they always have a different meaning to what I want them to mean.
They are further and further from the talk and I find it hard to understand them
in the noises of infinity.

Tissue gets tattooed by tissue with heritage marks. That is
what my silence with you is like tonight. Layer by
layer, shell by shell, mucus by mucus, fatigue
among us, civilizations of protozoans, eras of
viruses, cells of stones and air, and skin stuffed
with water and eternity.
It’s as if we were communicating in all
times, now in this moment, in which
we’ve found each other.

Instead of writing to you, I am writing to Snow White and Alice.
I’m sending telegrams to Pinocchio and The Little Prince.
I call Jonathan Livingston seagull and Cinderella on the phone
at least once a day. But there’s no answer.
Means that they think of us.
Those who know the signs of thoughts, rarely
use spoken language.
People respect each other with words, but love each other by silence.

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