Nothing to do with physics, I swear. I know nothing whatsoever about physics.
When you open doors;
When you put your hands in the mud;
When you play with fire and look at it with enchanted eyes;
When you allow your bare feet to be pierced by fresh grass;
When you simply look and listen, not letting yourself be blinded by interferences:
You let something flow in, but even more flows out. All sorts of stuff, on every plane – from mere physiology to air to thoughts. Once you do it, there’s no turning back.
It’s infernal at the beginning, especially if you clench everything hard and tight. You stop eating and sleeping. I did that for weeks. You vomit. You punish yourself for not being able to keep things from showing. For your own puny visibility. For needing help. For being weak, lacking, lame, run-down, powerless. For being imperfect. For being finite. For being human.
And so I stopped eating and sleeping, at first. I wished to disappear, to dissolve, to freeze, to wake up in another 10 years. All my torturers became visible and palpable, in dreams and in waking. To myself, I am Hitler. I am Bernard Gui. I am the whole fucking Spanish Inquisition, with all its devilish rites and purifications and pyres. I host them and let them use a big part of my random memory. And they have always been there, like the imaginary friends of a schizophrenic, walking beside me and not letting me see properly. Telling me I’m inadequate, insufficient, unlovable. That I have to be better, that I need to do more.
I’m starting to make friends with my dark matter. At first, I could only infer it from its gravitational effects on my visible matter. It has visited me in my dreams. When it takes hold, though, there’s another me that comes out. The healthy and strong and loving me. The one that can imagine what it is to live in a lovelier light. The one that is able to stroke. And to be stroked. And to feel loved without all the paraphernalia (oh yeah I have plenty of it! I know everything, I’m up-to-date, fucking efficient, I can tell you about Foucault and French literature of the Eighteenth Century and acoustics and perception of time in Bergson and Modernism and Bach and Artificial Intelligence; I can draw and speak 5 languages and recite Hamlet by heart and – if I decide to – even sing. I know all that, but I don’t know how to enjoy it).
My dictators have been my drive for years. I’ve let them. Had enough of all that shit, now. Stop showing off. Just be.
(Silvia, thanks for everything you’ve done for me)