II MARA THE CHARM OF THE IMPOSSIBLE

“The street was cold. Me, feeling bad.

Sometimes you need a drink.

For days I was haunted by a greenish turbulence that besets the brain, and I felt incapable of eluding it. I never thought that I would have to deal with such decrepitude. I feel myself beyond any scale of values, but still tangled in the human. Which values? Absolutely all a human could have. Hence the bitterness of the conflict: to have exceeded every possible value and still be with all fours in the limitation. The inability to transcend the limited makes you think of any form of annihilation. Probably the deadly despair of many romantics given the impossibility to reach the intuited Infinitude, Death is easier to bear. Another.

One more, to see whether the next cards may be better.

Or might come voluptuous Nereids straddling their thighs for us and enchant us. My case was different. The opposite, to be exact: once transcended limitation, refuse to suffer the return to the limited nature of the human. To be miserable again after having experienced all the glories. To Lose the material possessions is a child’s play compared to the huge task of compressing again a spirit that experienced limitlessness.

The immense is a point of no return.

Once you have become limitless, everything this world can offer will make you laugh. Power to domineer other humans? What interest could there be in dominating the limited? I don’t need perishable dominions that can’t accompany me into the eternity. Money? What for? To do what one wants to do? I already do what I want. Freedom doesn’t depend on money. Who still values money is far from being free. He did whatever he wanted, will read the granite of your epitaph, Olivia always says. And always will, would add Nicole following my instructions. What is the wizened freedom that money can buy good for? And what, if one of these days I transmute an oak closet in a little heap of four million dollars in bills of one hundred? It wouldn’t even be funny. What an achievement. Ridiculous. Not to mention sex. Drugs, please. Love, what love? Give me all the love a human can feel, and I’ll say to you: nothing, illusion, fantasy. Love what? A man? A woman? An animal? Everything? Of what love could we speak in the middle of this terrible limitation? I don’t want to be good, or respectable, or comply with any law, or love to be loved, or control, or possess, or experiment, or be illusory, or be somebody. What’s actually left? What would nurture you, at last? Be a patriot, pay taxes, a family, the sensorial, be an example, have common sense, work, possess a house, a car, go on holidays, have social security, subscribe pension funds, have good bank references, believe in God, think you’re already good because you go to church, say Lord, Lord, buy Treasury bonds, be adorable, desired, lucky, have enviable health, be important, be an ecologist, question the ideological vanguard, question esthetics, be on television. Nothing of all this is of any interest. Suicide? Not either. I heard of the Door of the Seven Keys that opens up to Immortality. That there exists a water that when you drink it you’ll have no more bitterness.

This is the turbulence that drives me mad in the eye of the hurricane. No value is value for me anymore.