EstAsia
Stasi

Beyond.

Wherever my gaze travels, there's a limit I will never see, because towards that limit I tend to infinity, like a hyperbolic dream of endless intimacy;

"EstAsia". A boundless and violet sky, from which tears might rain upon the face of Earth, or it might be crossed for just an instant by a spark of eternity, burning red and distant, a cosmic ember seen from the desolate steppes, with no prayers to recite, no soul to save, no destination to yearn for, no kingdom to conquer, seize, mourn, and forget. Fleeting is its passage in the valley of the sky, so that its luminous trail may be perpetually imprinted in the soul within the darkness, in the darkness of the eyes. The night is warm, almost light, and one cannot lament a where, a when, and a "where were you", because everything is far, from me, but within me, intimately within me and therefore invisible. I rest between the waves of the wind, in the undefined fragrances, in the whisper of the thin sky beneath the veil of my eyes, yet distant and imposing, almost icy, far beyond the curvilinear horizon of what I can only await, hope for...

...stAsi... waiting, calm, tranquility, without any wind entering through these open windows, without anything touching, except with its light, a ray of light passing through a full glass... without getting wet.

I bounce again towards the sea, the icy breath of the Antarctic wind, whispering the profiles of a nameless and harborless continent, everything that is distant is too internal to be unraveled from the depths and surface like liquid knots of cold and warm currents, but for a moment, standing on the bridge and observing its reflection. I forget it, and memory catches up.

"Solidea" In front of a window, an ancient vase, white and decorated in the flow of consciousness, with the sun, with the colors of trees and wheat fields that the gaze can carve out, with the flowers it embraces; and the voice, like a blinding flash of light, yet sweet and light, following the profile from the base to the edge of the flowers into the light-drenched outside leads and forcefully opens the gates of the soul to the glow into which it plunges...

"Doors" ...the labyrinth of reason, that which traps every distracted gaze so as not to forget the observation point from which it started...

"Cyclically" The infinite repetition of the seasons of universal existence, from the rapids and valleys carved in the stony heart of the world to the harshest paths on painful trails, to the sweetness of rest and autumn leaves... and the sky, again, increasingly dense with low gray pearlescent clouds with the wind swollen with a presage of rain, to confuse the curve of destiny with the broken line of reason, to confuse my gaze from a pier observing a wave-like motion of autumnal green sea water, to the snow... a windbreaker...

"Somnus Excitatus"... it often happens that there is the impression of opening one's eyes too many times to have truly opened them, and one of the many times is the most uselessly necessary, which leads me out of the dream... one of the infinite terminals of reality, increasingly flat beneath the heavy void of the day, which will sometimes fill, to contain the shapeless wave-like liquid, from the sea's cradle to the transparent glass traversed by the beam of light... in front of the window now in twilight.

"The Ganges", in the surges, the rediscovered sense, the sense to seek, the lost importance and re-alignment of the profile of thoughts to that of others' thoughts... and the history of everyone... in which we are all already infinitely dissolved, where we all find "the shape of water". Percussions and flutes, and vibrating taut strings, and bright rays, purple and blue wrapping and unwinding the sinuous elusive silhouette of a face, a body, a voice that encompasses every image and shapes the remaining outlines, like night as it spreads the sun's wings at dawn...

"Suryia"... a dawn and a sun, and the train of time, entering the darkness of a tunnel from the rocky wall of an ancient era, and emerging on the opposite ridge of the distant future, first only at rest in the quiet sleep of waiting for our continually changing present.

A dawn and a sky, now more illuminated, a sky of EstA.. sia, a sky and an earth at the encounter of euphoria... and a path to tread, once more from infinite time, to find it in me, drawing from outside the memory of flowers.

"no flowers in his heart..." before this, splendid gift that will put an end to winter.

h y p n o s p h e r e

(goodbye, DeBaser)