On the verge

There is a time when you stop waiting. No one will ever come, it dawns on you. And what once seemed wide and open narrows to a blade’s edge. You realize there is no support wherever from. Ahead a history to unfold and no mysteries to taste. A fine long line rests in front of your shoulders.

::

Grounds

At the end of the day the first is yet to come. Even late he is the one you’ve searched for. No more time left but proof is there. And still you don’t believe. You’d rather be down on earth. Any way.

::

To trust in word

And I walk through the maze in a constant rush foreign to myself and my own city. It could be worse in case words were lost. But there I go day by day searching for something missed a long time ago. Unprecise time and space. Maybe a bunch of nice pictures – kind faces, pleasant sites – which would yield punch to keep on going.

Corner past corner the hurly-burly seems to weave its own logic or lack of. My footsteps sort of gain autonomy now that the lyrics of a sympathetic song take over.

Paths get narrowed as light dims, as memory blurs. Yet the lines may still be relied upon.

::
photo: São Paulo city centre by Ricardo Imaeda

Which one?

::

If ever I see you again there won’t be soft cello soundtrack on the air. Into your arms a tiny rumour may arise. From a heartbeat or a signal of hunger it will be overheard by anyone near, provided there’s someone there.

If ever I see you again would there be some? Or would it be just a second-hand same?

::

Switch

If ever your sweat would run thin
Against my other sinful drips
Days could be drier
With all that treat
::

Wayward

[please listen to ‘Natural blues’ by Moby when you read]

Maybe it is destiny. Something far more complicated than home or plans. That’s what you’ve got when you are on your sole track, differences highlighted. No roads, no maps. You let go relying on some intuitive feeling about where to turn to. In a way it means a reconciliation with nature, that old good nature. Devoid of determinism or any kind of outer forces. Just a simple match: your own sense of direction and the wind lanes. But how?