It is possible that the paths of reason, subjected to the schemes of knowledge and seduced by the principle of non contradiction, are forced to surrender, like leaves destined to lie heavy with rain after the storm.
It is possible that the forms of logic, smoothed over the centuries and fixed in the mind, are undressed and dressed again slowly, showing brief caesuras and minute shadows, adapting the fine line to expressions of taste, exalting the style, clarity of words and the force of persuasion.

It is also possible that after plagiarizing the reflections of the memory, critical reflection has no eyes to see the emotional unity of time, when it deforms itself and lightens, until it coincides with its own shadow, representing itself as one, not renouncing its possession of the present, to look back and push forward. Nauseating are the feasts offered by civil morals, ritual beliefs and the slow shutting down of self-awareness. Sterile is the judgment of official stories, the culture of supreme cultures, emphasis, acidic and bitter, and murky lies of the narration that knows not the words and real sequences in time.

All of this is possible.
At any time.

The clown, red with joy, flies, the white of his painted face on the juggler's stilts with the worn out tamer's whips. On the sodden pile-dwelling of the fjord, algae corrode the thoughts on the bare gantlines to the east, to dry the salmon and fishing-lines for the boats in winter.

And, yet, although the filters of censorship are closed, and terrible though full exposure of oneself might seem, images from the depths, emotions and memories, appear on the surface, on the skin, with their natural strength, though the lips refuse movement and do not harmonise with the sounds, though the face softens its tone until its features are fully transparent and the temples throb like chipped notes out of line.

Images, moving and discrete, nervous and uncertain, called upon to discern the face and show the anguish, flourished in dark rooms of limits suffered in silence, after the show and change of rags and petticoats to represent the biological structures of the ego, the instincts of the species and the emotional roots of the individual. Completely alone, excited and uncertain, cry strange languages to understand and tell, to be understood and told, but also to be seized by the gentle hand of the point of light that explores the night. They cannot be read, they cannot be heard, they cannot be made up from forms of rationality, the skill of an expert or the curiosity of a passer by distracted by the improvised scenes of vanities. Useless are the opportunities for learning, poor the dictionaries of language and computerised de-codification, timid are the expressions of art, music and painting! Foreign is the experience of science!

Visible, only, with the single, small certainties that each has of himself, conquered by force and apathy, on the skin, amid the clamour of great events, in the atonic movement of melancholy, in the rhythmic steps of nostalgia, in the ballades of faith and easy enthusiasm and in the sandy mire of days, which seem to pass too quickly or not at all.

And this, not just to seize the conflicts and mutations of oneself in the images or the progressing affinities and distance, for empathy, attraction and repulsion, for liking and aversion, or to capture its voice, appearances, movements, when they tremble, hesitantly on the skin of the companion, fascinated by his own flesh and blood.
And also in the secret work of the archives and in places of research, amid tortures and the oblivion of dust. Because, in the written word or in the exclamation mark, in the uncertain correction or in the graphics of the mark, the explosive charges of movements and emotional elements solidify, in the heart of seasons, so it may still be possible to translate the old and the new into understanding and knowledge.

On the threshold of any cohabitation, images from the depths, emotions and memories, on the skin, are uncovered in the warm beds of guardians of burning passions, then pierced and possessed by the desire to narrate and by the violence of pages of history, when they rest sleeplessly amid ruins of abandoned walls and in papers, devastated by rats, marked by the taste of objects and facts, to repeat the same pauses, so as not to use up the waiting times.

For escapes or abductions, as on calm evenings when the sea-gull's daughters search for their father, and in tears, curse the fate of the fallen wings, with the boats and nets on the waves and in the wind, lifted one day in winter and unable to return home to the bench on the pier, burnt by the water and salt and dried up by the sun's moods, abducted for another abode.

My face speaks of me, and I don't know what it says.       ...      Would you like to know it?