For thirty seconds, maybe a minute, my existence made complete sense. My body was hyperventilating, but it wasn’t panicking. It was resetting the system, shutting out external stimulation, tuning in with the inner universe. My rational brain took a step back, but it used the human language to feel connected to my primal essence. I knew exactly what it all meant and I let it happen.
I was nothing. A nothing composed of everything I’ve seen, learned and felt through my entire life. Time dissolved. It was only my body suspended in space and my mind flickering in the dark. My moans of despair and compassion were the new-born child I cradled with my breath. The love I felt ripped my ribcage open and welcomed the light of inspiration.
My sensitivity, the pain, the density of my flesh became my home again. My one and only real friend. A wonderful vessel, the thinnest line between what I am and what I do. What I need to do. The ecstasy I felt in knowing I don’t need a place in this world, because I occupy all the space necessary to thread the abstract. Yet, I can only do it here, in the physical world. That takes courage, but it leaves no choice.
When the world will liquefy again, I won’t be scared. When the waves of information will try to wash me off the surface of the planet, I will merge with them and see what is left after the storm. I will pick up the twigs and draw words in the sand, I will smear debris into my skin to fill up the wounds and be whole again. I will rebuild the world through my body.
I imagine that is how Leopardi died. Still writing. His body dissipating into the air. Words floating in the empty room. The last words. A gift to humankind: La Ginestra.
