I don’t know what my mind is up to. Like all the others, my brain is a gelatinous sponge populated with meanders and mangroves inside which dreams are fighting each other in an atavistic struggle.
I don’t know if I am driven by strings or by habits too old to understand. My thoughts seem both random and automatic, puppets or puppeteers.
Neptune is passing through the celestial circle of my birth. The planet feeds and ennobles my natal Mercury for a few more months. My astral chart is the only map whose roads I know, but I do not see any destination. My existence is a fractal among many others, a drop of water that is no longer one in an ocean that is indifferent to it. The monks of the East nod in silence. The Western philosophers raise an eyebrow and never lower it again.
I must discipline myself to stay awake; only my conscience can distract me. The rest – what my senses pick up and drink in – forms a spectacle sealing my words.
I wish I understood my past’s chivalric and karmic route; I wish I could make a story of it and be proud, nourished and content. But I don’t know what’s clumping in my thoughts. I stand there listening to the ghosts and the sensations, and I am told I must forget them. I am in no hurry. There is no rush because the film of our life is no match for the abstruse mathematics of the whole of reality.
I measure my happiness, and it does not fill a glass. That’s why, each time I bring it to my lips, I refuse to drink it, already happy to taste its promise.