...and his notebooks

The day unfolds itself around me like a soft lucid dream.
The specter of entangled colors spreading on the floor, painting the walls, covering the bookshelves. As if I could see the air dancing around the surface, objects transforming, staring at me, directing the course of my thoughts and leading me as if I lost control over my mind; parallel trains going the opposite directions, I don’t recall which way I was supposed to go. I don’t remember the ticket, but I remember the joyful feeling of having these morning manifestations. Voices started mumbling from the books: - Get up, they softly spoke. – Go do, go fly, they encouraged me. Briefly they changed, speaking in several different languages, but whether they spoke Chinese or Danish, like a polyglot I understood them. Babel.

The city narratives; the cities of memory, the invisible ones, vertical and horizontal, of oceans, of such energy, much more love for those constructed of desire, I recall restlessly, like time as a concept stopped existing. How we shape the cities, and then how they shape us. Transparently numb, I stand in one place, it’s the place where I become the city and the city becomes me, talks and breathes through me, inevitably letting the people walk through us, projecting anything and everything, micro/macrocosmic experiences, celestial landscapes, essence and quality.

The hours before these hours, I woke up among the flowers. It was then when I realized that the city moved. I hear the birds singing up and down and in and out, around me evolves the beauty of a different place. Roots going down to the depths of the earth. Such a sense of possibility, such a sense of connection. I start walking barefoot, feeling the coldness of the stones beneath my feet. There is the river. Flowers and leaves swimming like fishes made of light upon the dark colors of blue and green. The river was telling me stories. I lie on flowerbeds and observe the changing of the seasons. The hill upward looks like a globe, I wonder if I can see the horizon if I climb the top of it and maybe the whole wide world will expand in front of me.

To efface the living clocks,to extent myself like a high tree, while the day unfolds from a dream, where I can sing under the rainbow and drink from the morning dew, where I paint the surface of the world… If only the blue sky can stay forever, if only I can stay here forever, if only this moment of being can stay… in perpetuity, as the birds sing up and down, in and out...