Along with a pile of useless things, in the midst of the darkness and freshness of the room, he lives.
A half-built object. Incomprehensible, counterfeit, ugly.
Unborn.
Accustomed to the darkness of the room, the light, for him, is an extraordinary fact that disturbs his eternity of silence.
It could have been an instrument, a tool, a piece of furniture. It could have been a poem. It was going to be a violin, a shovel, a baby's cradle. The essential thing is that it was not. He stayed halfway, in a mass of ropes and wood, of twisted iron, of illegible signs. The murmur of a madman.
In the disorder of unfinished, half-finished things, in a carnival of alienation and meaninglessness, of waste, of surplus, chance presented us.
It was like having lifted a stone that had remained motionless for centuries, driving an underground world of humidity, mold, and worms mad with terror.
He, proud, erect, looks at me. It is known to be contingent. What am I doing desecrating this grave?
He left things as they are. I turn off the light. Someone asks me if I found what he was looking for. I say no, and it doesn't matter.
The memory, illuminated and useless like another one of those absurd objects, comes to my mind today because I don't know what light turns on in my memory.
The environment determines the thinking, only instead of asking the questions at that moment I ask them now. If oblivion will reach, sooner or later, everything born, how much more oblivion does an unborn need. And what, in the end, will be the difference.
The house was torn down a long time ago. What happened to those exchanges, what happened to that object that I cannot name, that I can barely think about because it never had a name, nor form, nor meaning.
It was the time I realized that I was me, and that I was in the world.