Don’t explain, expose yourself
your refusal
your irreducible drift
the failure of all language.
I leave you these walls as blank pages. A handful of words offered to disappearance. When they are painted over, no trace of you will remain. These words are nothing more than an accident, ruins to be restored, a contagion to be cured.
There was a time when the word was both gift and wound, when to name meant to bind the world to an invisible order. There was a time when writing meant carving the body of things, inscribing in clay and on stones a map of the world or a destiny.
That time is no longer ours, we can read only its ashes.
Now, we are meaning undone, lost in translating the multiplicity of the real, the widening world.
This is not language anymore, it is afterlife.