Sin Título XLVI

Walk. Weave. Wander.
Look for a fit.
Misplace all the pieces
Dismantle them,
shatter them.

Germinate. Desintegrate.
Try to solve the puzzle,
Do not abandon the unceasing labour.

Swim. Sprout. Spread
across the length of the horizon.
Lines are not made out of points,
they are made out of infinite tunnels
that never reach a centre.

Stop. Read the warning.
The waves drag a salty inscription.
Let it sink, touch bottom.

Drink the water,
savour the salt awakening your tongue,
schorching your throat.
Forgetting feels a little like drowning,
first you struggle
then you learn,
then you let go.
Letting go is part of       becoming.
Fear is never lost.

I do not know who I am.
I guess I've never experienced real loss.
All I have ever known about is absence.
I trace lines,
delineate the border of my consciousness
and meet with the unfix.
I wish I could learn how
to embrace the fissures.

I never learn.
I've settled in the void,
this is my place.
I am to never leave it.