A sound without origin moves through the day.
It is a vibration that cannot be touched,
but burns.
There are no witnesses.
Only ancient particles
that recognize the expanding pulse.
The clocks fold upon themselves,
like spirals that forgot to turn.
The air,
too still,
holds in suspense the sound of an unspoken act.
Something rises formless,
a fold in the texture of the present
that demands neither name nor form,
only to be.
And to be is enough.
The hands—those that were no longer hands
feel the silhouette of a void,
the same one that once occupied desire.
Now it is fullness without a center.
A tear that never falls
because it has no weight.
A mouthless laugh
that floats above the sleeping mind.
There, where the attempt was dismembered,
everything that was once missing is reunited.
The line that separated the possible
from the absurd
dissolves like salt in warm water.
And in the chest,
a melody without notes,
a song of arrival
that is only sung when no one is listening.
There is no more effort.
Effort is a memory without an owner.
Walking is not moving forward,
it is turning with the sphere that unfolds
beneath the silent feet of what has been achieved.
And one observes oneself from the outside,
like a reflection that no longer reflects,
but absorbs.
It absorbs time,
fear,
the ancient hunger to arrive.
And in doing so,
it merges into the blue of the eternal,
into the gold that floats behind closed eyes.
Everything stops.
And in stopping,
it moves.
