Today it seems to me the past is more real than my present. It's a natural conclusion of preserving some certainties that the arrow of time has left, in a way, fixed in their place, even if only as pointers or symbols. The present's virtue is that certainties are mostly tangible, and that it poses the concrete possibility of the future.
The past, even if only constituted by symbols, is equally essential, as it never stops tumbling over the present, sometimes a timid lava, sometimes a thick mist, sometimes a simple reverberance that shivers in its medulla all of flesh's cores.
The present, filled as it seems according to the senses, has no conquering power: it can, after a fashion, choose the circumstance of the following minute; you could even venture to believe that certain thoughts can be favored, certain inclinations of the spirit. But everything is moving.
The past, as a byproduct of being visited, congruent with the incidental truth of having happened, acquires a solidity better known to the artisan than to the surgeon.
My present circumstance vibrates in my surroundings, it puts my senses to the test, my interpretational skill, my frontiers made so much of ghosts.
I do not accuse the present of the vividness of its marketing, but that it is deceitful. The comfort that comes with touching the world is lesser and perhaps less noble than the one offered by those subtle and secret manipulations that we perform on the contents of the past. Every time I visit it, it seems to me I build it, that the house of my childhood, when I take my leave, has two or three toys missing, some broken portrait elsewhere and some anarchic graffiti on the ceiling of my bunk. The past is easy, since it has been clotted for so long now, since it has clear pathways and well defined usages. The paraphernalia is intimate and complaisant.
The present, so oversold, so plain and so overwhelming, is but an impoverished fluctuation, an abyss wallpapered with the most popular modern delusions: I'm an agent of progress, I build my future, I contribute to the GDP, only what is useful is real, cynicism follows dreamt debaucheries as the most practiced sort, yes your dress must be white yes, your automobile must be able to climb mountains even though you never leave the city, yes foreplay yes the feminine orgasm no yes no the masculine orgasm yes the ambition yes the ambition yes the mediocrity is healthy practice it. Yes. The culture, the relentless inertia of the unqualified Yes.
But I live the present. To the extent my philias and my aversions permit me, I possess it as water the lungs of the drowned. I realize, in all truth, that each day I ought to demand less for it to give me more, that chance generally has poor taste, and that it must be me who collects the seeds for the everlasting Winter of being.
My walls are white, and their lacteous promise becomes sour every so often. Sometimes my room stinks of the gravity of being human. Closing my eyes only necrotizes the tract through which milk is digested. To speak is to inquire the cow that despised it, to pry over the minutiae of udders withered away millenia ago.
So today I have bare the tips of my fingers over the ergonomic fabric of the present, and from calf upwards I'm swimming at the duck lake I swam as a boy, from the calf onwards I install myself in the sight of the girl for whom I broke in two separate places my left arm, from the groin and up I remember my teacher Maribel and from the belly button and the chest and the esophagus I remain in that vague and sisterly mist of my fear of the dark. My neck does not participate in any of this, busy as it is holding on to my head by one or two arteries, indistinguishable from here, as the limbo that shelters it refracts all tentatives of access and turns them into language, into scrutiny; into scantiness.
Some sort of rock bothers my right big toe... I think it's email from work.