An old man with a butterfly in the sea.
I am water in a glass, poured into the sea. I exist, but I have long been lost by myself. Mixed in a new aura of space. I grab the hands of my own kind. Washed away into a new existence. Mimicking the general majority. Lost in the depths of the unconscious. Disassembled into molecules of H2O. A life jacket dressed in water.
I am not there. A wet place of presence. There is a body. The soul sighs. The brain thinks. I watch all of these. They scurry, crawl with sticky threads, tug at ropes, connecting with each other, like pieces of a pie that was cut and then decided to bake. They live in the same house, but on different floors, in different rooms, often exchanging living space. Each with their own life, with their cockroaches, with their locks, with their balconies, where it is so easy to go out, slamming the door behind you. To lose your temper, forgetting the way back. Leaving the dirty floor of unwashed parquet.
The spider swings on the web, like a wedding ring, over an abyss before parting. Like me, he watches. Hungry eyes search for a victim. To eat someone to stop the loud rumbling of the stomach. Healthy food without meat. Fats punch carbohydrates in the face. Proteins, look for lost yolks. Convolutions get tangled in a ball. A sword with a calorie calculator is raised above the head. A piece gets stuck in the throat. You choke on thoughts that can kill you from hunger. A body wrinkled by anorexia squeezes the neck with bony fingers. The brain first wheezes, and then quiets down. The last lump of regret dissolves in vinegar with hissing soda. I suffocate under the water inside myself. I try to drink the ocean in which I live.
The dragon with three heads falls helplessly. “Yes”, “no” and “I don’t know”, pushing in line. Conjoined twins with one body. Eating themselves. Drinking to the bottom. Poisonous bites carry poison through the veins, stretching the decision-making poles into a twine. Thoughts get stuck in the birth canal, never having time to form. Streams of water push the essence to the surface. The shit of meaning does not drown.
He walks. I like to spy on him. Through the crack I see what I want. If I don’t like something, I just pretend to be blind. I serve it with the sauce of the night and just close my eyes, disconnecting from the network. I throw the plot in the trash, crossing the event off the list. He doesn’t notice me. Because I don’t exist for him. Which means I can tell you about it. My truth. Bitter, with salty tears in the puddles of my eye sockets.
He walks along the road without end and without beginning. In the place where I could see him. He walks, smearing tears on the glass, bathing the green of the foliage in his ocean of sadness, flowing out of the gray matter of the brain of the sky, like a wounded bird, trying with its last strength to fly. A ship with a stupid hole is doomed to be a home in the underwater kingdom.
A thin, hunched old man leans on a gnarled crutch. Gray locks of long hair hang down in clusters. They mix with white clothes, from under which his bare feet peek out. He slaps them, remaining in place. Like a frozen frame of a silent film, torn from the track of the filmstrip. Bent like a boomerang, the wanderer looks at his feet, afraid of stumbling, but does not see the huge wall resting on his forehead. The fetters bend him lower and lower. He grows into the ground, clinging to the roots of memory. A young sprout that was once torn out, not having time to ground itself with a family connection. The tracks imprint grooves on the path, which fill with water, like a glass of drunk whiskey, with the remains of memories at the bottom.
The picture floats in the fog. Grandpa dissolves into a light haze, like a ghost that tries to pass through the mountain, because he does not have the strength to go around it. I regret that I do not help the old man continue his journey. The observer cannot interfere, so as not to smear the purity of the experiment. Therefore, I look more carefully, so as not to miss the little things from which the grandiose is cloned. Spirals draw me into the depths of the cave with a whirlpool. I read the serpentine of information, like a text chewing me.
I see a spot that sometimes disappears, as if an eye is closed by a palm. Life flows through the fingers. A white cloud jumps over the wall, clinging to the nail of the summit. The dress is torn to pieces, like the abandoned past and the distant future along the interlinear present in which we are. White flies fly to the jam that is just about to be cooked from the not yet ripe fruits on the branches. The wind mixes time. Dreams mix with expectations, spitting out the bones of the past onto the floor. Absorbing moisture from washed-out thoughts, the green growth challenges the mummies of the irrevocable. I no longer have a shadow.
I lose sight of the old man, but I clearly hear his steps. They are knocking with heels, hurrying to meet. Wooden shoes, dancing saboteurs. Heartbeat, pumping blood. Drumbeats accompanying the march. Lullaby, falling asleep with me in the same bed. I merge with him, stirring the floating pieces of differences in the cauldron of existence.
I need light to see. I need warmth to feel. I need the sun to live. I’m going there.
A bucket of ice water right on my head. It burns with spoken and written words. Rainbow ribbons tie into a bow, giving birth to a flexible butterfly body. It flutters easily in the corner of my view, painting the space around with watercolors. Rhymes are pirouetted, making words dance. Pointe shoes on its thin legs hover above reality. Where was I when the caterpillar changed so much. I forget the main thing. Memory is erased by an oncoming wave, dissolving the sugar sand of the shore. A moth flies to the light. Even if its sun shines like an ordinary light bulb. Covered in moldy dust. Everyone has their own sun.
We like to be mistaken and live in our illusions. With a tarnished reputation of statements that do not need proof. How often do unproven theorems turn into axioms that are simply trusted. Truth and lies are too relative to push off each other. Merging in ecstasy, they lose the clothes of dogma, remaining naked before their truths. I throw off the sheets. I dance the samba. Like a white butterfly. By the open fire. On burning coals, hissing with beads of sweat. Which flow down from my body in small beads and die of thirst in the hot desert.
I fly towards the sun.
The gray wall obscures the view. I put on the glasses of the windows. I see what I want. God is crying. Flowing streams wash away doubts. Rain in my clothes. Rain in my thoughts. My eyes fill with rain. An old man and a butterfly. An old man and the sea. An old man with a butterfly in the sea. Three dots at the end of a sentence. In the pouring rain.
I am this rain that washes the sun. After it, everything sparkles with gold, scattered with drops of dew. I thread the silver threads of rain into the eye of a needle. I embroider a shining dream again and again. A mirror image of reality in puddles that look up at the sky. A fireball floats in the blue of the ocean.
Let there be sun. Always.
A blind old man is sailing in a boat. A butterfly spreads its wings like sails that the wind inflates. Along the golden path left by the setting sun. On the surface of the water that is me.
I am everything I see. Or want to see. The sun of the new. Everything and nothing in tomorrow, which will rise on the wreckage of yesterday, if you survive your today. I am an old man sitting in a boat. I am a boat drifting in the sea. I am the sea flowing into the ocean. I am the ocean with butterfly wings. I am a moth frozen as a dot in the sun. I am the sun without a dot at the end of a sentence. I can be whatever I want. And you?
The rain washes away the dark spots. In the sun? No, from your eyes. Just read this.
