Saturday, 3 December 2011


I thought I was climbing when I saw you from afar. I was carrying all my years and the back of my wrists were sore from so much tripping. But if what I imagine to be the top was my goal, and if the path was so steep as I made myself to believe it was, how come you were not rolling down? Well, maybe I was just walking straight. Maybe I was so out of myself I was actually crouncing onto the ground in fear of tripping.

It is all a question of horizons. When Sacadura Cabral invented the Aviation Sextant he knew, he knew that if you are flying, you never realize where the ground is. Was I flying, then? Or was I wanting to become a dog or a monkey, a tree with no branches, a mushroom? Was I an hallucinating wolf, galloping my way towards you?

I will not sit on you either. Not because I am worried about soiling my trousers with the breathing miracle of your green moss. That would be like caressing the roots of a lover’s hair with the lullaby of truth. Maybe too comfortable, maybe too willing to halour. No, what if I would pretend to be climbing, and simply grab you and take you to the top, to the other side of the horizon, just to make a temple the fact that I would have to come down, and you would always be out there on the top?

Then again, what happens when you leave a precious stone lying about on the top of a mountain?

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