Order of things


The first ones to get old are the hands
The skin swells and reddens, the pores start opening

I’ve seen so many old hands, so many hands
I look at mine and I don’t recognize them

My hands are delicate, spotless
No pleat no rib could be seen through their immaculate white
The skin is smooth, perfectly tight
Whose are these hands full of hatches, lines and signs
Of illegible maps?
These hands with scattered fingers like gnarled tree branches
Whose are these hands, I wonder
I saw them so many times in books and movies
Hanging on other people’s arms
My hands are young, white, with no wrinkles,
They are not furrowed with such dykes

I’m used to write in the darkness for some time now
That’s how I haven’t come to see my hands in a while

There is nothing stranger than aging
Your childhood memories are as close and as vivid as those ones of yesterday

There is no chronology in memory
The time doesn’t flow out there
Each single remembered moment is a world itself
Another universe
As real
As truthful
As the one wherein the hands are getting older
There is no order of things inside us
The pieces settle arbitrarily
Everything is enchained in a bucolic disorder
Playfully and not nostalgically
The memory is only and always present
The nostalgia is destined to what we cannot remember to what we have forgotten
Maybe

I look at my aged hands and I keep on seeing them spotless, smooth like snow
Like in the first day I contemplated them.

I think of all those faces that I still carry on with me
Although the mirror doesn’t recognize them anymore
I reflect to all those things happening outside of the world
I think about all those impalpable layers of our existence
I think about how we walk through transparent labyrinths
In dreams
About how we wake up confused
Tying in vain to fit in a single face, in a single fate

I think of the hands that I am writing with as if they are one with the writing
As if nothing happened to them from the first line to the last one
As if they would be the same hands
Making the same gestures like in a ritual
As if life itself could burst out of my chest
Without stripes, without pleats, without hatches or wrinkles
As if I could understand it
Without more and more complicated maps

All the walls of my heart are tattooed with such maps
My sights are full of hatches and arrows
Of superposed creases, of lines covering the thin ditches that furrows my hands
My sights are blinded such way that
I see but the immaculate spaces from between the stripes
The image of the white hands, with the smooth skin, of youngster

Memory is the source of the eternal youth
In memories the time is not passing by in spite of the fall of leafs,
Of the rain, of the snow
In memories there are only statues with immaculate skin:
Caryatid-moments sustaining the walls of the world

I wrote all these in a document called: I am afraid.

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One thought on “Order of things

  1. Pingback: Ilinca Bernea | Levure littéraire

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