I had treasures in my hands

I had treasures in my hands, what have I done with them? When I was young, my mind craved all kinds of discoveries. My body loved to dance, to play, letting my imagination provide reasons for such actions.

Blasphemous and naive, my passion devoured books brimming with sweets and promises. My present was filled with hopes without understanding what it desired. I was carelessly reckless and as fearful as an unconscious person.

In adolescence, I tasted a boy who welcomed my desires only to resent them immediately. After each embrace, he glared at me furiously, imprisoning me in guilt and shame. He forgot me, probably hid me away in his memory. It was too late for me, drugged by a first accident of the flesh.

At that moment, I did not promise never to be caught up in it again. How could I have? I am probably more horse than knight. A bit like both the cicada and the ant, ineffective at crafting a fable.

That’s how treasures are lost, transgressed by pirates. Age asserts itself, sinks its roots, clings to what it can, and forms a peaceful and helpless bush bathed in the air of time.

Time rolls on. We get upset differently, become more creative in inventing horizons we believe unexplored. Life repeats itself, we don’t think about it too much. It sings of ancient sufferings and floral hopes, despite the voice dwindling for lack of vibration. Once, there were Cyclops and Titans. Now, there are hackers and viruses.

I had treasures in my hands. What had I done with them?

I wore them out for a small salary. It’s not so much that I got lost in work. I am, after all, what I am, with talent to spare and hours to spend. Everything eventually sorts itself out, moves forward on its own. My task was to respect my humble destiny, to become a naked body in the river, washed by the ordinary of existence.

I don’t remember myself too well, what I was to others. I don’t know if they understood me, loved me, if I was anything more to them than a speck of dust in the eye. Of course, I still have treasures in my hands. I share them with those I love. I have the wealth of my loves and my connections.

I am surprised to still be turning over the soil of my questions, extending my antennae beyond my shell as if I had only one periscope to guide my journey. As if being blind allowed me all visions.

I feel increasingly immobilized, breathing in the scents of an unforgivable wisdom. Everything seems inevitable to me even though no truth emerges from it.

I still have some treasures in my hands. What will I do with them at the last moment?

My legacy will surely be silent, fading away like dismantling an electronic device. My bones will not be recycled, only reduced to a powder devoid of stars.

I cannot be offended by this; I am not the owner of my memories. I am only what I am, and what I will be will only be what I have been.

I had so many treasures in my hands. What I have done or will repeat has no importance.