When it gets dark and the day gives place to night and dreams that struggle to arrive, I look at the undetectable black ceiling and see myself in it.
Imagine myself seen from up above. Which part of me will one find from there? Someone who vaguely opens his eyes to the invisible and tries to make it discreetly concrete, a palpable absence that feels and cries from above, an emptiness living alongside me the reality I reject being.
Do I want to be an integral part of that which already flies far away, flee from this terrene state and emerge to erect inside myself someone who may overpass me?
I lay down and capsuled in the tenuous cloth that folds fragmented on myself one feels real because I sense the cold and the sleepiness that fights to fall asleep.
I reach really close to the abstraction of reality when there I rest, hidden from everything that’s occurred and touched me during day. I’m then inert and even if catalyzed, I will continue this way, a noble soul oozing without reacting.