If made of crystal, I would still be opaque to your eyes. If I were made of basalt, with my lips frozen in silence, I would still inhabit a misty garden in constant bloom. If I were made of electronic threads, that wouldn't stop me from wanting to be wise and immobile or from fomenting my next hunger, drinking my immediate pleasure.
I am without acts. No, I am without gestures. In reality, no matter how much I want to understand, I don't know how to describe what isn't describable. I am made up of opposites and possible complementarities. I am black or red, salty or tasteless, envious or devoid of desire. That's the magic of Neptune, who, in his old divine skin, has fun dissolving my certainties.
I watch the roll of the planets. Their dances reassure and discipline me, for I am powerless in the face of their gigantism. My being stands still in this determined, electrified present.
Many prophets and astrologers are Cassandras, warning us to shake off our lazy fatalism. Do our thoughts belong only in the orbit of our consciousness, or can we communicate despite the vortex of our individualism?
If I were made of reincarnated flesh, my former intoxications would not be able to escape their past. It may be that we are, after all, just one immensely multiplied atom. And we are groping for our solitary origin.
I can't come to any conclusions. I remain surprised. Alive. Whatever I may be.