It doesn’t hurt me what you say to me without speaking, erecting the enormous stature of a pain so convinced of itself that you only invite me to compete. Then, after an infinite second in which I internalize in my skin the stories that inhabit your iris, simply under the gaze, as if you were right, knowing that very few had it, knowing that almost always nobody has it. Knowing, as so often and often, that the tare weight of pity is never defeated by arguments, that in the face of lying and believing, you can only take distance.
I wish I could finish this letter, check it from above to see if I didn’t miss any spelling mistakes, fold the sheet and put it in the envelope so that tomorrow I can send it from the post office. But what could be more useless than that? Everything is useless, everything. The assertiveness of the skin, of the tongue, of the hand capturing the veiled message of an unborn twilight, is worthless when the bridge – laboriously built – is rejected from one of the shores, how can I explain to the postman that he will have to carry a letter that will never be read?
And what hurts me? I, who knows how to tell the mischievous look of a sparrow when it lands on the wall of my courtyard and searches my shoulders and hands, I who wet my shirt with the cry of the beggar boy in a corner, I who received in my face the spittle of the teenager who lives on the street in some Salesian class, I who found a crack in the speech to the learned of infamy being a foreigner and without much to gain, how would I tell you, in what language would I tell you what hurts me?
I – and I know that when I say I’ you swirl in defensive – would never tell you what hurts me. What hurts me is not said, it is reflected so that only my fellow men can see it. What hurts me is not said in a rude poem or in a prose sculpted by rhythm and an oiled reason of finite logic. What hurts me was never the subject of playwrights or theosophists. What hurts me is no more than the castle that hurts you because it’s no small thing.
Someday – as always – my pain will make you sing of joy, and make you have faith in what cannot be done, even if you never realize that I was there. Someday you’ll even explain to me what I’ve known most of the time. Perhaps, in this way, you will grasp each of the signs, the kiss that absurdly does not occur, and the wonder of a look when powerful abysses fight for their existence behind them. Maybe someday, like now, I won’t have to tell you what hurts me and we could use not having to. You, keep going.