I just had a conversation with a friend,
basically we talked about how our beliefs change over time.
I tell him that my life is a constant feeling of vertigo, where I destroy myself in pieces and I have to "glue" myself again, and every two or three days everything closes and I see nothing in my texts, nothing gives me images, like If the world were closed, and I was forced to reopen it, to find a new window, through which to glimpse something of me, but each time it is different, its skin is something else. And every time I feel anguish that I can't see the light again, because I don't have a clear picture of anything. The interesting thing is that before, my world had a sun, with which I could see things, everything was so clear. But not anymore; I feel that some sort of rigorous process of criticism, as an actualization, destroys the sense of selfhood, and although there are beliefs that survive this destruction - sentences, rather - they lose all meaning, they do not speak, and the body remains empty. Because I feel that I lose everything, that nothing ties me to the world; or rather, that nothing ties me to the one subject I am supposed to be, and then I returns to the world, in the form of a horizon. The funny thing is that when I spoke with him, he told me that his experience is practically the opposite: a constant melancholy, awareness of knowing that what he is now, the things that constitute him, will not be tomorrow, and tomorrow what he is will be something else. As if he could never say goodbye to anything. But keeps the souvenir, it is essentially a subject that undergoes a change. Vertigo on my part, melancholy on his. He sees it happen, sees what it was before; I don't see, I don't see how I was before because it closes before me. Every instance makes me anew, to be is to be something else. It may sound liberating but it's not. The knowledge (or perhaps believe, who knows?) of every possible experience resulting in a constant obliteration of my unique grasp on selfhood results, not in a constant self-creation, but rather in the fear of knowing that you are going to go in a matter of seconds, that everything is gonna overflow as a fountain, a spring of associations that will suddenly cut into you and then just drain abruptly, leaving just a hurting body that rejects all classification, that doesn't feel correctly and that refuses to use words to keep being, but utters a multitude of gutural voices, showing the unthinkable reality that is that I in reality is not one, that words only will mitigate them -that deserve their own voice- to silence. Because words are already classification, abstraction, organization. But I need words! even if no definition is correct, how do you expect me to be if I can't be affected by words? Words have a weight, words are machines that activate the bodies that are other machines, these machines have no clear edges, they bump into one another, to say that words are just that is to deny them the capacity of their natural multiplicity of invoking other words, other colours, other textures, other muscular movements, and only see their rational form as the only possible form they could have. To say that words are just words is to effectively kill language.
Poems exist to be able to inhabit the world of unutterable irreductible experiences.
But poems aren't always poetry, and sooner or later, in a span of seconds, become only verbal artifacts.
On doors of the world that close and open:

My friend told me that he longs for that change, that he has not lived it for a long time, has been in the same room for most of his live now; or that, if he passes through doors, he does not feel it. I used to be like that, I remember feeling that feeling of boredom. But I don't know when, something changed in me; Now everything is different, as if I no longer had an instinct for the preservation of my being, all I am looking for is to explode against something, someone, that someone breaks me. It reminds me of some words from Kafka that I read somewhere, said that books that are like axes that break the ice ocean of our being are needed. I think that my experience is fundamentally different from that of my friend because of that. His works, his life, are the product of a refined search guided by a Sun, the "I" that is revealed at the end of the horizon, never setting sun of eternal glow. But in my case, it's rather that I find myself in the middle of the night, complete emptiness, and it is by singing that I can really open up and open things, populate the world of images, which populates me in turn, I dwell; They stir my ocean of ice. My goal is to destroy myself until incarnating time (the primordial material) again. All for the true moment of existence, of truly being, of truly existing, where the whole forces become sculpture, song, walking poem, meaning machine, whatever you want, speaking words of fire that ... I don't understand; because when I sees it's no longer being. My friend's existence is like a mountain, mine an ocean.
This is not some abstract preocupation I have, this is my reality, this is the momentary reality I live in.

I do not write to say something. I write because only then can I live.

Perhaps it is why my existence is moments of silence, of words that stumble upon each other. And they rise and fall, squirm, until I am born again in their foams. Who knows?
Sometimes I am afraid:
What if one day, maybe, I don't get out of that emptiness? What if someday no exclamation reemerges again?
Anyway, it was interesting.