Something about the arrangement catches your eye and disturbs you. The accumulation of deodorants, the cheap green and white hairdryer, the roll of cotton wool, nail clippers, the vial of hair darkener, toothpastes, cleansers, brushes of various sizes, balms, aftershaves in brilliant yellow and green bottles, down to the last ounces, body-washes, the ocean-blue soaps, growing transparent at the borders, yes, there's no mistaking it: all this is a sign of death.
You look in the mirror in the early hours and think of yourself as an old man, looking back. Will you then have so many things around you or will you have managed to whittle it all down to the essential, discarding the superfluous? Will your life be simpler then, truer?
For fifteen minutes in the day there is a semblance of order in your life. The plates are laid out in a regular fashion, the food is hot and delicious, and there is a simple salad that comes to stand for all that is good in the day: radishes finely sliced, cucumbers cool and fresh, onions in lemon juice and a few plump tomatoes. Here it is, an unpretentious, rustic bit of lunchtime perfection.
You are the last person to sleep. Outside there is a vague and unearthly glow produced by a streetlight and it makes the lawns appear artificially green, the artificiality spreading everywhere, like a soccer field after the game is over. You turn off all the lights and each room becomes dark again. You draw down the blinds. Little r sleeps blissfully, like a cheeky and exhausted chimney sweep, her hair tousled, her hands grubby. The baby with his yellow cap pulled firmly back resembles a miniature, innocent Pope. H sleeps propped up on three pillows, her hair seeming more dark and lustrous than usual, flowing down on the pillows, accentuating her features. The slow breathing joining the millions of others around the world. She has a few buttons remaining open...
The impassive stars, witness to this impermanence, this kindling and rekindling of the flames, of love itself and the death of love. The finding of form, its loss in our dreams, the ancient chaos in the human heart, the displacement of fine sentiments, feelings, left cold like a china plate on the table overnight, with the howling dark outside gently pressing against the windowpane. This stilled moment when the the clock's telling of time reverberates within.
Out of nowhere, in the deep silence, a host of dark bird twitterings, as brief as the glittering of silver leaves in a high tree in full summer, or the sudden and sure swerve of a million shoal of fish.
You look in the mirror in the early hours and think of yourself as an old man, looking back. Will you then have so many things around you or will you have managed to whittle it all down to the essential, discarding the superfluous? Will your life be simpler then, truer?
For fifteen minutes in the day there is a semblance of order in your life. The plates are laid out in a regular fashion, the food is hot and delicious, and there is a simple salad that comes to stand for all that is good in the day: radishes finely sliced, cucumbers cool and fresh, onions in lemon juice and a few plump tomatoes. Here it is, an unpretentious, rustic bit of lunchtime perfection.
You are the last person to sleep. Outside there is a vague and unearthly glow produced by a streetlight and it makes the lawns appear artificially green, the artificiality spreading everywhere, like a soccer field after the game is over. You turn off all the lights and each room becomes dark again. You draw down the blinds. Little r sleeps blissfully, like a cheeky and exhausted chimney sweep, her hair tousled, her hands grubby. The baby with his yellow cap pulled firmly back resembles a miniature, innocent Pope. H sleeps propped up on three pillows, her hair seeming more dark and lustrous than usual, flowing down on the pillows, accentuating her features. The slow breathing joining the millions of others around the world. She has a few buttons remaining open...
The impassive stars, witness to this impermanence, this kindling and rekindling of the flames, of love itself and the death of love. The finding of form, its loss in our dreams, the ancient chaos in the human heart, the displacement of fine sentiments, feelings, left cold like a china plate on the table overnight, with the howling dark outside gently pressing against the windowpane. This stilled moment when the the clock's telling of time reverberates within.
Out of nowhere, in the deep silence, a host of dark bird twitterings, as brief as the glittering of silver leaves in a high tree in full summer, or the sudden and sure swerve of a million shoal of fish.
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