Letter VIII

The desert

When I came back to Isla del Se, its face, as I told you, had turned to a desert, uncomfortable and stark like all the things to invent. Its surface that I had once seen covered by the tangle of a peculiar vegetation, in which I’d got lost, isn’t but sand now, impalpable sand, unseizable even in its color. The Sun lights it up then the night turns it off, while the wind plays with its dunes, laughing loudly when it loudly blows, ever changing its face with its tricks. If I had still the illusion to having something to look for upon its surface, how cruel this trick would be… If I had still the illusion of having nothing to find in it, how much easier it would be to escape… But you cannot escape from what’s inside.

On the face of Isla del Se I saw the truth of space and time unfolded in every direction, among the dunes’ curves irredeemably laid beneath the sky, and I felt lost. Yet, the desert, of the surface, it showed me the dusty fate, and with every grain it was whispering me and still it whispers: look beyond.

That day, the snake I’d met on the seashore moved towards the dunes, drawing winding lines upon the sand, like who doesn’t know where to go. Neither I knew where to go, but I knew I had something to look for and so I stepped into the snake’s devious gait, I trusted his mutant moves until I got to what was calling me. The desert had told me the truth.

Spread around the Umbilicus edges, that desert seemed me the blank space around all the poems I’ve yet to write. That’s why I’m here, and here I’ll stay, writing and bringing you visions which may never touch you. Still if they’ll ever thouch you then my lonsomeness won’t have bitten my hips in vain.

If you’ll ever have a desert to cross too, cross it with no fear of getting lost. You can never get lost in a desert, you can only find yourself.

P.S.

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