The night has turned barren.
The lights of my refuge are no longer on in the night. The writing is missing and missed; but the night is no longer the hostess nor the whore who whispers to the ear and conjures fantasies and lures me with better hopes. I am standing up the nights, I know -I sense the vacuum feeling of it-, despite the fact that, surprisingly enough, more than ever I notice the urge -albeit gentle- of the writing, the warmth of the mindful muttering of verses and thoughts.
All comes in the morning, with the quietness, large and larger, of the dawn and when the wind or the rain ruffles the hats of the trees. Heart and brains, that's all Life is about, no matter how much ones folds to the dictates of experience. The quest of Man is not Happiness -that ominous Circe of every shipwrecked Ulises, drifting through the deserts and jungles of doubt, sensual and capricious-, but Serenity; nor Reason is the highest aspiration of Humans, but Joy.
The warm thoughts of it, all comes in the morning.
The path takes contradiction and giving in. Shall Man be like the Bombyx mori, worm which builds its cocoon from its own liquid and undergoes transformation. The longed Kingdom to come shall be this reviled, muddy world of us -but beloved, as well as the Man himself, as Creations of the Creator-, but transformed and renew, at the End of the ends. Shall Man be reflection of life and change: if not mysterious fire, embers of light and burning coal. Now.
Coffee, worries, the company of a good book, a fine poet, a opened-chest life-traveler, heart and brains. Life all starts in the morning.
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