With Eyes Closed

I sleep a lot. It’s probably because of the fall, the vacations, the accumulated fatigue, the skin colored with vernacular craters, aging, the end of a world, mine or ours.

I am often immobile. It’s probably for the same reasons and also because I don’t know what to do now. There are those days and nights when I have the feeling that I have walked around the garden. Everything I could do or accomplish has been done. There are no more flowers to pick; my footsteps have taken me through landscapes and journeys. That, underneath them, the Earth remains the same.

My boat undulates on a silent ocean. With my eyes closed, I auscultate the stars pressed against the zodiacal canvas of my eyelids. Perhaps I, too, am a star that illuminates the empty sky of reality, a firefly looking for a companion and risking everything, even being devoured, to accomplish its mission of being a link in the chain.

Time, it is said, is not an arrow but a direction. It stretches if it becomes too severe, runs out of breath if we pay no attention to anything. Now all I have to do is wait until the stars decide to leave their retrograde positions? What do I have to live? To understand?

Isn’t it useless to ask these questions because it doesn’t bring any butter on our bread? Am I condemned to live only on food? To pretend? To wait, with closed doors, for the rise of an ultimate or possible sun?

My closed eyes are the spectacle of a day that belongs only to me. My eyes open, are like moons that seek to move the tides.

I sleep a lot, I wake up so little. Still, it is good to write it down.