where the fall has only just begun:
the seagulls, the wind,
and that endless azimuthal abyss,
your lost gaze reflecting the world
through your thoughts,
never as it is or what it could be,
but as the wish of the sky
falling toward your day
and somewhere where night begins.
All your words will linger above the sea
as you go deeper into the shore,
trying to walk it, step by step,
drowning the flesh only to believe
your body would be three:
one above,
one in the middle,
and another falling through the waterline—
close your eyes
and chaos will begin to suspend its time
as you go deeper,
around, the night collapsing into more night,
and none of your words surviving,
not the deeper you go.
Only then, you could write:
«the light makes time;
if the light dies, so does time».
Whether Time is a cycle or not,
there, you’d need other senses to feel
and seal what could never be sealed:
«the depths of a red rose
are a black rose
as our human time darkens»
—beyond my nadiral horizon,
there, the time of night is perpetual,
made of no names and no time,
as its light disappears, dying,
as you read the abyss of the shore,
as I write the abyss of the depths;
two abysses that might never touch
until the illusion of their ethereality fades.
Between them, Time and Space,
writing their story:
you, going after them anyway
to weave the intangible,
me, turning off the lights,
taking off the clothes
leaving only touch to become
the night of the soul,
as all our words and feelings
will go dark.
A stage only for two,
between lights and shadows,
a love born of such contrast,
so radiant, so carnal,
that your shore would become
indistinguishable
from the horizon where we,
both, undress of words,
would make our naked bodies
a style arising from darkness.
Skin without time
being the deepest night
drowned in an abyss.
Eyes without a horizon
being day drowned in outer space.
Ideas being timeless,
with their inner world collapsing
when an emotion confronts them;
memories being timeless,
as we return to them,
being “we” just beside their “time”
when what truly collapses within
is never time itself,
but a fragment of us.
Time being eternal,
and Mythos inhabiting a representation
of everlasting, undying and untouched time,
forever happening, forever beyond reach.
The shore being the flesh we sense,
beyond, all their night
collapsing into a deep abyss,
Life walking into the sea,
falling into Time,
to walkfall† within vertigo and soul,
you descending toward me
or me ascending toward you:
the blackest white
against the whitest black.
beyond, all their night
collapsing into a deep abyss,
Life walking into the sea,
falling into Time,
to walkfall† within vertigo and soul,
you descending toward me
or me ascending toward you:
the blackest white
against the whitest black.
But here, now, you only have to figure out who you are and who I am, whether we are both you or me, whether this is a complex metaphor between space and time, life and death, or whatever two different natures need one another to be, whether they can or not be together, opposites or not, antagonists or not. Yet, I can write—or confess—that it’s about how two abysses cross, each speaking through the same sea, from the outer world toward our minds, and vice versa.
Happy total solar eclipse. You are still not here, my love.
Spain, August 12, 2026.
PS. If a story were not transversal and never crossed the plane that distinguishes fantasy from reality, all that remained would be its interpretation, never us. Only another story.