El artificio de la escritura / The artifice of writing

sábado, 24 de octubre de 2009

I Am Time

Time, whatever it might be, has a very concrete, very real, everyday presence in myself. I am time, the aging process of life. I am the second in, second out of my tickling pumping heart, that model for all clocks and watches, for every machine that imitates in drips and clicks and blinks the tic-tacking obsession of existence, that muscle of mine that tells me incessantly that I am time and time is not for ever.

Like the rivers the poet likens to life my veins are running floods of time, they rush blindly for that ocean of the end, the infinite cesspool of nothingness, the timeless darkness of oblivion.

The lungs, time instruments also, breathe within my chest the same timed rhythm of the incessant clock.

Step by step, I walk in time, I time the time of life, that road of the well known allegory. I am, we are, in perpetual movement—we are time; time in us persists and lasts forever and ever as long as a living organism squirms and palpitates in rhythm, second in, second out, timing the never ending passing of life.

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