EARTHLY MANUSCRIPTS
ZERO
I knew.
I knew that if I started to write I could not stop anymore.
I knew I could, but I was afraid to begin.
This lasted a few years. I wrote in the mean time. Little.
Timid. Without volume, without mass. Just light.
The thing I’m afraid the most is the trance. The PASSING
stage. The VESTIBULE. Where the passage between the two worlds happens. Between
REALITY and DREAM, between EVERYDAY and FANTASTIC, between ORDINARY and
UNUSUAL, between EARTHLY and HEAVENLY, between UNKNOWN and REVELATION, between
OPAQUE and TRANSPARENCY TO ALL. I am also afraid of CHANGE. What if I cannot
return? What if, wanting, I could not return?
Would it be possible that the other world could cause irreversible change that
would make this present world seem obsolete? And the sadness… To live imperfectly
after you have seen perfection. To have the vivid image of the transcendent and
to continue living in the dust of imperfect reality. It sounds like a
punishment.
On the other hand, none of these is certain. One cannot say
until it’s verified. It’s the same as it is with the “other” world, the one
after death. The only connection is faith. All you can do is to believe and to
hope. There is no certainty, there is no contact, and no verification, only
hope and opinion. Maybe all my beliefs and hopes are false, and have no basis.
This is another reason for fear. As the monks are saying, the fear of God is
not the fear of His punishment, but the fear of not losing that tiny fragile
thread that is connecting us with Him.
As you can see, my universe is made out of lots of doubt and
hesitation. Belief, and hope. The hope to have enough faith. Made of living and
dreaming. Of many things. Fortunately, and unfortunately. Sometimes, of
reverie, and revelation. Sometimes…
The struggle to live as an idealist in a material world. The
temptation of the absolute and the absurd ambition of perfection. The pain of
the unaccomplished. The diffidence of making the unavoidable mistakes of any
kind of creation.
Eventually, I started to write, more and more, as the daily
chores permitted, the chores I could never waive, due to imperfection and
material needs. Imperfection – same as myself. Same as everything around us and
everything we do.
