Beyond tomorrow
I feel that my life is calling me to a place I have forever dreamt about. A place that feels like home, and yet that seems depressingly out of reach.
Today, and yesterday, I feel like the road that leads to great things is pulling me by the hand, great things that I always thought were mine and were me. Things without which I would be somebody else. Today I can hear the calling, but my eyes see little of a blur.
Must I follow a voice that might be none other but the screams of my own anguish and deception.. Must I turn away and take the road of a crisp horizon.. Must I trail my instincts and run after my dreams..
My life so far was chosen for me. The failures I might endure shall not be my own. If now I choose to take the ship that hugs the storm, the shores I might dock on will be ones of enchantment and wonder.
Yet if the storm wrecks my ship, I will be drowning alone. And I will be dying a million deaths, like the prophet who lived long enough to see none of his prophecies fulfilled.
My fingers are cramping. I feel strangely consumed. Consumed by my choice, when my choice is but one that was carved in the shape of my skull, the color of my eyes, in my father, my land, in each planet and each sun.
Funny. Consumed by my choice when my choice will always be me, but will never be really mine. Ever.
My fingers are cramping again. Maybe I should sleep. Maybe the night will whisper something in my ear. Maybe tomorrow I will know that beyond tomorrow is where I am truly destined to be.
posted by Fouad at 10:23 PM
1 Comments:
Here’s something that I just thought of… it could be yours?
My only roots are made of paper: books gathered and piled up pages, letters I cannot resign to throw away, collected stamps put into boxes. From my tree there surges some kind of foliage, i.e. leaves for the songs uttered by others: they land, they fly again, they have pleasant plumage and nest very high.
Is there a place on earth where I would at last be able to unpack? A place where my memory would at last let its roots grow? Where the past would take its time? I am hungry and thirsty, you know, I miss so many things, I would like to find the truth about my beginnings. Is there indeed such a place welcoming the lived time that was once mine? A place still free and not affected by other people's memories? Not an empty place but a plain one? An understanding one, whose seasons would still have to be invented? A native land from the end of one's life: where one would like to, and know how to, die. Home, at last, just for some while.
Jean-Michel Maulpoix, The traveller's will
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