“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.” Borges
XX.
I always think about the river, its tenuous reverb, its eternal play with light. Its surface is the border between two parallel worlds. It is its way of showing us the dual nature of the world, of our being here.
I have admired the river: strong and subtle, solid and supple. Sometimes the same as always, never the same; feigning serenity but boiling deep inside. Just like thought, just like ourselves.
I have mulled over the river, its mission, and how it patiently pours overand spills, flares up and calms down, it is and it isn’t, eternally in its cycle.
I was always afraid of the river. The bandage over my eyes had made everything starkly opaque. And I thought I was safe where I was and dreaded going near the other side, but I dreamed of it, sensed, imagined, longed for it.
Today I go back to the river. Its currents no longer scare me. Nor its depths cause any worry. I just enjoy the unforeseen, grow stronger with its sketchy route. This river took me to you, returned me to you.
I always think of the river, and understand the futility, the vain course, of my enterprise.Water is our only sign, and in the middle of the maelstrom, we have seen each other.
Let us flow, yes, let us flow together toward the forthcoming cycles, my love!
RRS