MEL I-II

Apparent things exhaust, disorient, soothe deep down every fibre of the body, the latter yearning for something else that can be defined as nothing. However defined, this nothingness appears indefinable to most, including those who call themselves ancient. For some time and on many occasions, I have given much thought to Novalis's memoirs: 'What, then, can I do for my soul, which dwells in me like an unsolved conundrum? Which leaves the visible man the greatest licence because it cannot in any way dominate him?". Recognition of these distant words reminds me of the same hazy indeterminacy of a moonlit night landscape, with the difference that the sidereal folds just perceived, beyond the curtain of horizons, are fading into the deepest darkness, annihilating themselves like sparks in the rain, and, as I found it difficult to believe in the soul, in matter, and all that appears, I ended up reflecting on the finiteness of ultimate thought, its faint manifestation in events, the echoes of a memory that I imagine was never born, the nature of a baby’s wailing, absorbed in the sands of time.

Ink on paper