Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Le Passeiste


If it is out of a former life we awaken when we are born, I do not know. Knowledge of that life would be severed with the strings of fate or the umbilical cord, by Atropos' shining shears. Yet something stirs behind my memories, as if my memories held memories, which are betrayed by a vague, and no less intense, surge of feeling.

Daylight courses down her dark hair like liquid. The street is simply burning and throwing sparks. In her eyes, a clear depth. In her eyes I move across great distances, yet I am not pulled toward her, but in all directions toward oblivion.

I sometimes wonder if I am a passeiste. Or if I am like everyone, following Shades down unfamiliar streets until the light is drained from the day, when we can no longer distinguish our prey from the night. I reach so longingly and call so deeply. Am I unlike everyone? Are we all not seeking to repair or replace some shattered or lost image?

But what I feel goes back further. Reflections of which I know no definite origin find me. I walked along a wall embraced by ivy and heard the stones singing from their tombs. I once caught a phantom and held her by the hand on Charles Bridge and we watched the night cover the city like a flood tide. When I was very young, I imagined that Orion spoke to me but called me by another name as if, from his heights, he had confused the centuries.