Needle Drop

In the light of bitterness, he stood against a wall. In the cry rising from his heart, only a cry was understandable, though threats were uttered. Standing propped against the wall of all the failures, great and small, bearing beneath him all the suffering of his simple past, composed of the gravel of memories. Each pebble composed of conclusions, events, in their unfolding, giving full effect to the permanence and stability of that past.

Gazing at the moving wall of people, loved, liked, respected, known, friends, and complete strangers. Each of them, each of them subtle, magical; each of them original, true, each of them, even though they fly and die; they dance and sing.

I see them with wide eyes, and their memory remains on the inside of my eyelids, opening, imaging, recording with each closing. Page after page; an endless story.

In my impulsive faith of pure and noble emotions, I persist, doing nothing. To avoid offending the will and conscience of others, immersed in tolerance, I interfere and destroy my mind, ceasing to be objective towards myself. In the solitude of a single member's egoism, immersed in purchased tenderness just around the corner, I am filled with an energy as positive as it is fleeting in its banality, accessible. Fortified

by my faith, for here I am, purchased, redeemed, redeemed today in the symbol of a coin with the sign of the cross, casting its shadow upon it; I live leaning against the wall of the greatest temple. There are many of us, living, buying, and pure believers, equally thirsting for water from the spring of life, the promise of eternal happiness and so propagated, as chaotic as the thoughts of the text addressed to You.

The nightmare of conscious acts, often within the narrow scope of atonement, drowns in the gnawing conscience of a psychologist in need of a personal educator, addicted to a doctor and medications, a psychiatrist with a priest who has so often collaborated with them. The bars of honest truth, of good confession, pushed aside before us, only to be called the superstition of simple warriors of the baptismal font.

In a devotion so sincerely considered righteous, truly our own, we seek to break them on any occasion that demands sacrifice, with undying complaints and memories enriched in proportion to the past, we construct increasingly long sentences of everyday life, only to conceal the truth so often dormant within us.

And so, fearing our openness, we avoid people like ourselves; in search of a lost sincerity, we deceive the mirror and the window, only to please others who accompany us with a mask:

Liberate yourself and free yourself... shout for this, I am and live, I do not ignore.

Discovering the truth at the end of its age, the golden arrow decides whether to take its mirror there or leave it here.