THE CONSTELLATIONS OF THOUGHT 7: FRAGMENTS
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A new morning arrives, absent sunshine. Last night, clouds gathered, defying my day’s design. A deep ache lingers within me. Today, the idea of leaving home feels unthinkable. Here, I seek refuge, a haven to confront my true self, hidden from the world’s watchful eyes.
The clouds above mirror my own internal emptiness. My heart has no fixed address; it dances side to side, left to right. I’m crafting paragraphs to guide me across blank lines, searching for a temporary home. This home, cluttered with dirty dishes, waits for the right time to move on.
I echo the depths from which I rise. What sparks of movement did Joan Miró find to track his heart’s journey? He was a master at revealing where his heart resided. Yet, my inner child yearns to play today, while adult responsibilities bind me tight.
To ignite passion amid the world’s chaos is my only solace. Yet, I crave security and must bear my burden. Am I foolish to trade moments for mere job security? As Clarice Lispector said, “He who is not poor in money is poor in spirit.” How I wish those words were my own!
Perhaps I should channel her spirit and seek her permission. Until then, I’ll meditate on her wisdom and hope for forgiveness. Death shows no mercy, yet I’m certain we’ll find common ground. Now is the time to seize every moment while death swims far away.
The day seems unaware that I must depart soon. Even the dog is oblivious, racing in joyous circles over soft moss, hoping I’ll chase him until exhaustion claims us both. Soon, my child, we’ll move to another city; there will be no more waiting for security. Instead, we’ll waste away for pure ecstasy.
From that day forward, I’ll finally save the glass precariously teetering on the porcelain edge. We’ll sing in an endless poem, reminiscent of Virgil, celebrating life’s shimmering narrative.