The Spirit of Morning and Night
Para a versão em Português, clique aqui
Out of sorts. That is how I have been feeling in recent weeks. I think, as Carol mentioned, it might be due to the proximity of my birthday, just a few days away. Noticing my anxious state, she commented that this month preceding the completion of a full orbit around the sun tends to be relatively tense for anyone. It is not a rule, but it is what usually happens. Your subconscious returns to the physical, mental, and spiritual state preceding birth when the baby completes the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, leaning toward the lower side of the uterus, bringing the head down and placing the feet up, secure and ready, albeit tense due to the impending first trauma of life when exiting the womb, blind and comfortable, into the daylight that hits you and burns your eyes and gets you dazed.
You are worked up because a lot can change or simply out of sheer anxiety about what comes next. Especially if you are over 30, when, technically, you reach the midpoint of the road, the peak of the pyramid, and then you must prepare for the inevitable biological downhill journey.
I usually handle the birthday season quite well. I won’t say anxiety does not affect me. I don’t feel comfortable in formal celebrations, and even more so, I have no intention of being the center of attention, ever. I say this not to project an image of humility, not at all. I say it simply because I’ve always seen myself behind the curtains, behind the shoulders of those sitting in the front row. I like to be part of the show, but I would never be a cover boy.
I’m the dark bird that soars over the stage. Rises and falls spins and calls. Applause! And the bird disappears into the forest. Its name is Carnival. A tiny figure, a ghost, and the opera’s master of ceremonies. A shadow waiting for you outside the gates. A lover of the Irish Goodbye. When you seek for me; I am never there. When you find me; I am no longer myself. When you think you will catch up to me; I am already a bit further.
Play the Carnival bird’s game.
The world splits in two, like a couple of strangers.
Its name: Carnival.
That is why I have always enjoyed writing. I do have a hefty dose of vanity, and why not? As I have said in previous tales, we are indeed anxious monkeys full of self-love. I am fascinated by the ability to gambol with the language in an elaborate and complex way, thus establishing a connection loaded with meaning, scenes, an explosion of colours, hidden or lost feelings that can only be accessed when certain points are triggered; links in a chain being built, letter by letter.
However, despite desiring this connection, considering it my greatest and most esteemed goal, it should not manifest with my presence but only with the letters grouped on this screen, moments before this conversation itself, happening here and now, on this page with a clear (or dark) background: only words, no voice, no flesh-and-blood author.
Talk to me as if I am inside your head.
Speaking in your voice.
Feeling as you feel.
You are the spirit of morning and night. The clandestine one. Your personal Nemesis, invading your being and penetrating your own soul. There, inside, in that oblong plate that forms in the deepest zone of your being, is where you will infiltrate again, where you will establish residence for a certain time, precisely the time this conversation lasts. So, when it finally ends, on page 2666, you will be free, hovering like a dark bird inside the Aleph room, the place where everything and everyone can be seen, where the past, present, and future can be observed all at once.
I will be in that reserved place, waiting for you, hoping that one day we might complete the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree inside the womb or the orbit around the sun once again.
Chin down, eyes and feet up.
Secure and ready.
Born again.
Completely naked and bathed in light.
Exhausted fire and rebirth, which for some is called Nirvana.
Last kiss.
Never-ending story.
