one disembarks from his own adventures
sooner or later he realizes
that things are different, that it is easier to be entertained in
the lies of others than in their own truths:
partly because of laziness
partly because he doesn't know where to leave his own hands when it rains.
one regrets having repented, thinking about the
past as a sort of nest to which one would like to return,
without having the lucidity of felines to accept that what is repeated is
a surreptitious way to start dying a little,
then broken, one understands that things are not what they seem and that it is enough to scratch a little the rusty paint of life
to find below the first coat of paint that
the love and the adventure of saying that they did give him,
but of course the way is very short
riddled with forks and false bends that do not lead to
nowhere; one is made in the image and likeness of days gone by,
maybe it is nothing other than the materialization of
an interrupted sleep;
one disembarks from his own adventures and realizes
that of the infinite chain of centuries and the domestication of fire,
of all this only one thing matters,
and it is not known precisely what it is
and that's why we care
and keeps our blood burning
helping us disembark
of our own adventures.