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It was the dawn of the world

For newborns the heartbeat is the soundtrack of the present, a clue to their being in relation, from creature to creature, body to body, without name, just beginning. 
It’s a chime, a lullaby, a foothold in nowhere, a bell in the dark, a cradle. As time goes by, the beat escapes the silence. We are no longer able to isolate its single notes from the countersong of reality that echoes it. We stop astonishing at its pulsation, we give up looking for it, groping between the ribs of the world. Unless we begin listening, placing our ear in the middle of the chest of a fellow creature.

I had the grace to die soon. I got sick as a young girl, I went in and out of life for over ten years. Then I’ve always been ceaselessy running in the last rows. Being between life and death changes everything forever, because it is on that threshold that the strongest light happens and blinds you to see beyond. It is in the abyss that scattered fireflies of meaning keep winking.

The greatest privilege of suffering is the parched desert it spreads around you, its white silence, your ferocious abandonment of a proud beast, while the world sets behind a distant bloodless horizon. The being is far and human.

There will be no bitter loneliness than that of a child. There will be no loneliness if there is a future. The body at its end stage is hollow sound, beyond human breath. A void resonating with heartbeats. Your pulse is getting more and more tired, lighter and lighter. Just dig in the dark cave of your chest, crawling between thick stalagmites of ribs, struggling between hope and fear, whale bone, like an oblivion of water from the memory of thirst. Its ceasing would be salvation. Or prior answer to every question.

The white coats say you will die. They blindly throw the harsh sentence into the abyss of your mother’s eyes. They have latex hands, they touch without touching.

Under the bed there is no God, or He does not hear, or He does not want you. Run and run into the hospital garden, to make your heart go crazy or die.

If you go back, ejected to life, you are convicted to longing for that initial white light, stumbling around like a blind, hoeing words which are always too dark.

Night comes back as intermittent floods. Otherwise the day could never unfold one more time. Do not sing it till dawn.

There is so much night in people’s gazes, so little rest. Just keep avoiding their blindness and run to the sideways beating of the last lizard’s heart, to the extreme flicker of the heron’s wing.

No one is perfectly in its abandonment. We are little. Each one a drop that breaks to the ground and can only quench the thirst of the surrounding ones. If you don’t expect nothing from human beings you will be spared endless hells of hope, you’ll open your eyes to the sick angels, you’ll reach out your wounded hands to the cry of the loving abandoned. You’ll exist.

The huge solitude of nature speaks the exact language of your silence. You are a homeland with no borders, no cages, no guards, no chains, no punishment for the intemperance of breaths. You’re free from the torture of moths gathering around the light to extinguish its secret.

You’re an open wide house. You’re a huge body sharing the breath of the wind. You’re a lake collecting the rain which overflows from the broken heart of the clouds. You are a field partaking the rush of the green blood which flows through submerged veins. Nature calls you to birth in her great welcoming womb, which becomes all the seasons of an indecent soul. Your love and hers comes from nowhere.

To live means to kill. Life is everywhere, and everywhere I breathe. You cannot eat something that has been alive. Your only aim is to kill less and less. Your target is the idiot joy of being there, despite the obvious triumph of evil, despite the surrender of your eyes to the impossible heaven on the threshold of sublime.

The unborn won’t ever forgive you life. Not even the hidden death that silently absolves you. The keepers will want to scare you with pain. They will deny you your name. They will bury you in a deep silence of snow. Sing it to the bone. Entrust your tune to the wind to be brought out of the reach of the gaolers. Escape the max facility of meaninglessness.

Mr. Death is doomed with all his silly songs: he only succeeded in raping his sins. He’s now hanging from his own lies. You’re nowhere to be seen. You’ve survived. So much for your late friends.

Each dawn is the coming of light to light. Nothing is more precious than a heart, nothing more rare. No music is higher than its consecration. Each body that lives is obscene and a masterpiece. It houses the mud and the breath of creation, the fury that makes you: do not die.

Each body is astonishment. Look at the winged ones. We should turn our envy of flight into awe.

On our first train journey her little life climbs me up and nestles in the recess between my chin and my throat, where my heart beats more wildly. Her little beat mingles with mine. We have been one for centuries.

I sigh. From that tiny body breathes a sigh that devastates me with joy.

Welcome dog love coming from hell. It took you long enough to get here.

It was the dawn of the world. I was born. There was no return.

Chiara De Luca

 

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