This morning, on a sunny spring day, coincidentally related to my birthday, I decided to let myself fall, disobediently, into the unreasonable intoxication of this breath. An impetuous drunkenness, distilled and macerated in the warm vapors of the whispers of my intimacy.
[An intimacy now uninhibited, after my continuous internal licenses (so far from complacencies and conceptual servitudes) and whispers that emerge impeccably, from the purest intimacies and the deepest depths of Being. Today celebrated by my devotional fervor and my dedicated Attention to the wound in my heart.]
My dogs have come running down the hall, full of youthful joy. They have greeted me effusively and bouncy and, shortly after, they have relaxed, at my feet, next to the table on which I am writing these words.
Birds and pigeons, without pretensions of any kind, and ignoring other important considerations, rhythmically hum their melodies, happily, awakening me to new sensibilities, which stimulate the drunkenness of my spirit, today unbridled.
While I, feeling the sky, the dogs, the incense, the clouds, the birds … I look primarily at the background where all that happens, and in that background my scattering happens.
I have observed that, when I ignore that background, the days pass by anonymously, almost furtively, as if they knew of the fraud that nests in that ignorance and the pain that is neglected.
And it is -of that unattended pain- of what I would like to write on this spring morning, wrapped with his sensations and with the company of my dogs, resting inert at my feet.
But, I would like to write in such a way that my words should confront the interior fraud, which sublies under the drowsiness of the routine character, and which tries, cunningly, to usurp a place, which corresponds legitimately to the Reality.