Near to the Wild Heart

She asked herself many questions, but she could never answer herself: she’d stop in order to feel. How was a triangle born? as an idea first? or did it come after the shape had been executed? would a triangle be born fatally? things were rich. -She would want to spend time on the question. But love invaded her. Triangle, circle, straight lines ... harmonious and mysterious as an arpeggio. Where does music go when it's not playing? -she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: may they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.

The only thing she hadn't got used to was sleeping. Sleeping was an adventure every night, falling from the easy clarity in which she lived into the same mystery, dark and cool, crossing darkness. Dying and being reborn.

Then Joana suddenly understood that the utmost beauty was to be found in succession, that movement explained form - it was so high and pure to cry: movement explains form! - and pain was also to be found in succession because the body was slower than the movement of uninterrupted continuity. The imagination grasped and possessed the future of the present, while the body was there at the beginning of the road, living at another pace, blind to the experience of the spirit ...Through these perceptions - by means of them Joana made something exist-she communed with a joy that was enough in itself.

Inside her it was as if death didn't exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.

It is curious that I can't say who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can't say it. More than anything I'm afraid to say it, because the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express what I feel but what I feel slowly becomes what I say. Or at least what makes me act is not what I feel but what I say. I feel who I am and the impression is lodged in the highest part of my brain, on my lips (especially on my tongue), on the surface of my arms and also running through me, deep inside my body, but where, exactly where, I can’t say.