As if by magic

February 15, 2022. No. 186

I also close my eyes to feel you. I need it to remain faceless and ageless, as required by souls magnetized solely by the mysteries of literary creation. There are times when real life drags me, imperfect-divine, and I cannot afford to contaminate these lyrics, to allow this magical seduction that embraces us to fall into the abyss. That is why it is essential that I dream of you, that I abandon the daily mortal that is in me and exist only for that morning from which you hold out your hand to me, thanks to which I have the privilege of becoming a compiler scribe of the eternal.

I have wandered whistling along sidewalks and trails, I delve into faces and gestures, jump from books and obituaries and eternal melodies. All simple —and immensely— to touch your soul, to stretch my last dream in pursuit of a reason that connects us. Reaching you is not the task of mortals and I am not a powerful ghost, simply someone who traverses the human future —unraveling traces on sheets of paper— to give you that piece of light that reaches us like a prism in the wind. I want to add you to this small harvest of ideas without an owner with the desire that you can say: I have someone who from time to time passes through my life and leaves a note that inspires slight, but loving reflections.

It's always April by the time you start reading. Everything blooms with the light that you shed on the book like a spring of souls. It is this moment in which I have you (or in which I am you), the greatest pleasure of my existence: it is your greed, therefore, the only meaning of my trip. You are my possessions; I have —nor do I want to have— any other privilege than to arrive, page after page, at the threshold of your charms, leaving questions and answers that take us a little further in the human experience. Drunk with joy, at the slight touch of your hands, I go for a walk through the unfathomable gardens of thoughts. Do not abandon me, breathe the aroma of eternal feelings with this vassal of love.

These lines come into your view and —as if by magic— my existence begins. Who knows if right now, another, or other countrymen, share the silence with the two of us, entering through the labyrinth of letters towards the paradise of an idea, an aspiration, a common concern. We will not fully agree, but I am sure that we make up a choir without faces, without silhouettes, tuning from the complicit whisper of internal voices, to go to the most winged song of good spirits. Maybe you have questions to throw to the wind, in that case just write me a few lines or simply put a noble dream ahead; don't worry, somehow that gesture will get to me.