by Urban Belina
Even when you came, on what ever occasion, there was a Name. And we danced, if only between words squeezed out of two intra-spaces, from the within, where nothing is. And we danced (talked) and we danced (talked even more). And my world transpired and tried to taste yours and we danced, it was still transpiring and curving, and we danced, we danced nevertheless even though there were no touches and worlds were curving back into self, in front, from side in and out, and the hum of words was bending language, and we continued dancing even though we had no words for touch, even if there was no site between all spaces, even if the world was bending, and the world was bending, these two spaces never really touched and we remained alone in the intra-spaces where nothing is. And we danced. Word was running and running, was high-spirited and glorified, we despised it this word. It could not give us a look in the eyes, it could not bend us so that one could be touched, seeing the glow in the colour of other one’s eyes. Did you long to be a word; caressing the touch of dream? Did I long to be a hum that would give the word the wooden roughness of a maladroit touch of two rugged membranes of worlds? And language danced, trying to penetrate into one experience before oneness. And we danced (talked). At times it seemed like one world managed to stretch the world membrane just enough, one could hear soundless resonance of crackle of two leathery skins rubbing: coarse, warm and strident. And still, there were too few. Too few words, lots of words reside in languages, yet still they are not numerous enough when I long to be touched. And we danced. And words were dancing in a ring, the magical chant was long forgotten and you forgot how to call it to life. So all we could do was to dance (to talk). Intra-spaces were numerous, they are countless, yet still I find myself alone in every single one, even if I see many thoughts touching one of the countless intra-spaces of dreams, oblivion or no-time.
Always alone. And we danced. And there was water. And sun. And images of oblivion and no-return. And circle. And we danced. But my water did not know your water-state. And my fire was closer to your sun, whilst my sun was shinning on the wind of your trees, yet never reached the trees as such. And we danced, whirled (talked and chitchatted). And there was river, a living river. We both knew it. My river was filled with wateR; your river was filled with water. Yet water is not the same in my world, as it is not the same in any of the countless inter-space visions, each has different water. And my water never met your water and your water shall never bathe me. It seems it would be nice to swim in the river we both know, filled with your water.
But I would more likely manage to swim on smoothed boulders of dried out riverbed, than find your water: words, words, dancing never show the way to your water although I know the way to the river, the water is not to be found. I often go to the river. I often long to swim in your water, yet I always find water known to me, there is never an unknown one there. I had met many waters, I encounter many, yet yours remained and shall remain hidden, the magic charm had been forgotten. I might come to your water when you will come. And you will not forget the word without words any more. And dance; the memory of dance remains (Speaking had once been). Worlds still try to stretch out residing in such expansion that I lost myself within my world and you lost yourself within yours. The world of singularity was supposed to exist because of one person. How could it happen that we both, me and you, got lost in the space of individual world? And I got lost. And you got lost. And the world continues to expand driven by its own volition separated from my volitions and wishes, under the pretext of the mission it had emancipated and is now trying to conquer space, time and word that gives primordial creation. And it conquers words, word after word it is conquering language and more it is becoming his, this language, less it is mine. And more it is becoming his, less power it has to expand. But it does not notice any more, I haven’t noticed and you haven’t noticed that the word, which once had been the source of all creation, now de-creates, destroys, gnaws through. It sucks power, the word, which is too expanded and used up, emptied out and now takes power, my power, your power, power of the world, that still vainly expands in undefined directions; in self-moving try it extorts closeness, you say touch and the word touch takes the magic and power of touching away. It still wants to touch the other world and always as it comes close, the other world arbitrarily expands to the other direction of space. And my water keeps flowing in my river and your water peacefully rustles where I can not see it, where I can not touch. And worlds conquer time and space and language, they are learning of sense, growing, living, and all they long for is one single coarse moment of touch, not longing for eternal unity, not longing for hieros gamos, they only wish to feel one fleeting skim on the random point of endless membrane of longing. Sometimes I seem to hear, at least for a moment, the rustling crunch of touching, it seems the worlds had made it. Yet it is just the rustling of used up thoughts of my world, sadly jumping into the River of Oblivion, desperate, emptied, bled white, sucked out by word, abused by language, giving up and for a goodbye resounding only a replica of the thing the whole immense world is tending to. Resounding only a sound approximate of the touching incident, born out of longing for touch with another world, then betrayed, worn out and humiliated, call the last crackle for goodbye and rebound to oblivion.
I am thinking of your water and of your fire, and my sun shines still only on the wind that sways crowns of your trees which are surrounded only by the shine of your sun. Maybe your thoughts are crackling also, desperate and alone? You may be lost in your world that exceeded its own purpose and now exists only for existing, and you wander around fragments of a world too vast in search of your own pieces, thoughts that used to be you, meeting with images that had elongated and had been mutilated to such a degree that they have become unrecognisable. And you are thinking of my wind, my sun, the glimmer of my water, thinking of all what will never become yours and keep longing without touches.
Translated from slovenian by Urban Belina.