Look up, Elias
The sky, circling in blue and orange has turned into an alchemist? Elias has stopped trying to name it. Orange into blue into something that has no colour yet, the colour of light that arrives near the end of things and seems to know it, seems to be watching back, in greys. Elias keeps walking. This is the whole discipline now — to keep walking under a sky of vapid judgment and not turn away and not explain yourself to anyone, not even to yourself, specially not to yourself not anymore. We are not the rational creators we tell ourselves we are. We do not choose towards joy. We choose away from the face we are afraid to meet later — the older self standing at the back of every room we ever entered, arms folded, already knowing how it ends. Elias chose some things for that reason. The safe harbor. The door not opened. The words not spoken on an evening in another city that he can still locate exactly in his body thirty years later. He was trying to protect himself from regret. He ...
