On symmetry, chaos and all in between

Narcissus, Caravaggio

To understand the escape, we must accept the return.  And so it is that I once again find myself in this city, surrounded by seven hills and believed by some to be more ancient than Rome. Nothing has changed and everything has. What difference is there between the girl who sat on the roof and the one who sits on it now, is it only a verbal contradiction? The past and the present are melted into a space undefined and vivid, known and sought after. Safe.

I have gone back to three years ago. It was around this time, and, just like now, the whole night I stayed up reading, thinking. Dreaming in the wake, awaking in the dream.

We drove through the countryside on the way to my house. I thought, everything passes. One day even us, our passions and our dreams shall pass. They will be the passions and dreams of others, but the earth, the earth shall always live.  And if I am made of earth, then I shall exist forever, until the endless end of all dreams, of all passions. But what am I now? In pieces, as if I had lived 1000 times already. Where am I exactly, at which point, in which land? My past I half remember, my future I barely see. I re-turned to re-find myself, to go back to what I was and to the reasons why I left. I despised this city all my life, but she always welcomed me back. I suspect she will be the harbour from which my ship shall sail towards hundreds of harbours. The thought comforts me.

I have lived this before. I know this season. We live in cycles perhaps – then we are infinite and immortal. Unending in the symmetry, in the reflection of each into the other. The chaos in my brain devours my sanity, together with all the violence of love which, not returned, turns against the lover. All that is pure is found decading, rotten, toxic. I have already seen this, too.

A pure and rebel love, which only hopes to let the beloved shine, embracing what he himself repels. Each part of the sacred being each of us is. I mourn your loss. Only in love I can find a shape and a form, a dimension. Only in you, whom I love so deeply, I can find the order and the sense. The direction, perhaps. But my shouting voice breaks against your boundary walls, and all which is life and light and warmth is forced to shut up and be forgotten, like a mistake, a slip, an unforseen event. A miracle. The return. The point where all is revealed. And do you really think that you can hide? I can see behind your mask, I heard your voice before I even saw your face. I saw your soul and this you cannot deny me. I have already travelled through you and you did not even notice, blind and deaf as you are to all that is not YOU. And I see you there, as you laugh about my love and all my words because you do not feel these things, no, you are strong and these are just thoughts to kill the time.

You are a child. I think of your beautiful and fragile hands, of your eyes, Orpheus constantly turning towards your Eurydice, losing her forever in the Dead’s Kingdom of your past.

You are the breath that is not. The memory of what never was. I perfectly remember you for what you weren’t. Precise and undiscussable. The past which is already future, the clock hands which simultaneously point to all minutes, all hours. And it almost seems as if I had already written you a love song, maybe just this one, I live you as I know I have never lived you, and yet it seems to me I have already experienced you and I am beyond, prisoner of a future memory.

Use your mathematics and your logic, now. My love for you is proportional to the distance I take from you. Calculate. We are parallel and symmetric my love, and parallely and symmetrically we drift away from each other.

You are evoked by a little nothing, a sentence from a book, a door shut by the wind, the smell of olive trees. I find you in my pocket as a crumpled receipt – you come and you go in my head, each day you go further.

And here I am. In the same room, same light. Has the hour changed? I left ugly Babylon to reach the centre of my soul, and I was almost lost in you to find me. I know this too. I have already seen it.

I will emerge from the black spiral which strangles me, but you will not be there. And I shall travel far and you will never see me, but this has happened before, and if I had used my logic I could have even foreseen it. I shall leave and return, leave and return, and again I will mourn the death of shadows, again I will have fallen in love with the perfect aesthetics of an image, a thought, an emotion. But you will be replaced, because you have been others, and others will be you.

We could not find each into the other, and now we are lost each to the other. But in the endless cycle this does not matter, because again I shall drive across the countryside and smell the olive tree, but your eyes will have turned a different colour.


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