….The hardest part of letting go is the uncertainty….
There is an abundance of night. Dreams are coming and going. He is wading through moonlit waters. Wide borders of reeds and tall grasses are impeding his view. He yearns for the pathos of waterhens and panicky ducks, for he needs their noisy disturbance for detection.
Covered in sweat he awakes.
The man at dusk needs a dialogue with himself. Looking at an hourglass he starts a monologue in a whisper, hardly audible, where the past steadily crumbles, lazily, in a cruel and wretched slowness with a somehow perverse delay.
On this brilliant morning he takes his time to watch the sand running through a tiny gap, predictably, steadily. Indolent sunrays are infinitely falling too. That is how love falls, he thinks, bleakly and indirectly.
The bitter truth converted, the enormity of a small reason for a catastrophic outcome. The horizon seems endless, the beach deserted.
He is meditating, deep in the shadows of the suddenly upcoming dark clouds. Rain starts falling very softly, paused by the warm gusts of the sighing wind.
A reluctant drizzle of exquisite mist, a veil of tactile and subtle courteousness, that turns more incomprehensible by the minute, the world becomes an enigma.
The man and his surroundings are engulfed by an impenetrable grey haze, in which he is a blind man, touching and feeling his way out to find other things, the very small ones, for which he is still searching. Where is that face? And where is the child he still hears whimpering?