We all know it, mostly from our social relationships: the deep ache of not being able to make ourselves understood. It feels powerless to have become speechless, at a loss for words, inaudible, having not yet found the sheltering blackness of the blackbird’s feathers in the twilight of a winter’s day, the solace which tells me that we need not be afraid. Instead, like frozen clouds, I’m stuck in the shadows that tell me of my past.
Something begins to melt at the dewpoint of my heart. My words grope along the fine line of touchability itself, seeking the shape of what I want to say. They want to speak moss, and the sound of the weir, and even the wild beauty of your nose. As if they were an organ of touch like the sun, constantly feeling the world with their loving rays, and carrying the impressions inside, where the solar storms are born that kiss and warm our world. How much more should I be able to “see” and receive you in this life, than through my skin? What, then, is permeable communication?
A crescent moon frames my thoughts, turning towards and stepping back at the same time, leaving the space for listening without getting lost. The first word in the world that joins the I: I am. Then, through the heart, a new speaking: I am you.
Translation Laura Liska
Illustration Graphics from the series Wie ein Dieb in der Nacht [Like a thief in the night] by Philipp Tok
