Chronicles of the search for the eternal –
Carlotta Micale
Butterflies flapping their wings in my belly; I look for the eternal inside the nuts, under dry shells, between gray seeds of plants, and I cry, I cry so much, I cry facing the truth: I cannot find it.
I resign myself to discoloration.
Then I fish on the paved floor. I can play the sidewalk, I can pass the arc on the light cords, I can draw on the windows of my neighbors, I can leave the house, transgress only to play on the children's swings. I can sing a Gregorian melody, I can sing African songs, I can sing to the word that I’m crying, I can sing to the word that I cannot resign, but I’m resigned to resignation.
I miss my land, I miss my people, I miss my words.
A prolonged babble pastes my tongue, knots my chest, mind a liquid branch derailed on the tree. I can see three pigeons fighting for a piece of bread. I am a privileged one in this desperate world, mad world, sad world. I can spy the neighbor. She is giving the bread to the pigeons; she wants them to fight for the bread. She is sad. I am sad. I look for the eternal inside the nuts, under dry shells, between gray seeds of plants, and I cry, I cry so much, I cry facing the truth: I cannot find it.
I wander for hours; I need to remind myself that I am alive. I cannot remember how to feel alive. I can see the sun behind the filter of a dirty window. So much dirt in this house. I spend hours staring at the tiles. The dust enters only in the grooves. Damn grooves. Damn house. Damn winter. I still cannot find the eternal. It is not between the tiles. It is not between the breadcrumbs left by the pigeons; it is not between the lines of my drawing.
Eternal doesn’t exist.
I miss the words.
I miss the eternal.
I cannot stop looking for the eternal. I spend all my mornings writing and staring at the windows of the other people. If I look down at the table, powdered newspaper, print newsletters rain down. Don't talk to me, don't look for me. I can only see a polaroid of the time passing through. I give in to the impatient build-up of energy and burst.
Drops of stone wash my childish smile from the photos on my desk, and I see myself stripped down, with one hand on the newspaper, and the other one in the pit, while the neighbor cooks a milk soup for dinner. I look for the eternal inside the nuts, under dry shells, between gray seeds of plants, and I cry, I cry so much, I cry facing the truth: I cannot find it.
The city needs me, yet it twists its mouth, amidst lamentations and torments. Are you satisfied? I am not.
Pack me and take me into the cellar to macerate. I will have a fragrant decantation. I will have a checked tablecloth without embroidery and a yellow fridge to open at night.