This Gravitational Force…

She just sat there. For five minutes, for two hours, for many years, forever. So beautiful. Was she, really? Yes. No. Didn’t matter. She knew the answers. In that, her beauty. Siting there, the immensity of the sea ahead. The issue hovering over, some indefinite place. The issue… And the question.

Are you going in?

Where?

You know… In?

The ocean?

Going in, really in, all the way in… You?

That depends… You, who?

She. She. The character. Speak low. Better still, say nothing at all. Silence. It’s not possible to speak without making use of her. The character. And it. The sea. The deception is needed. Or it’ll wake up. It. The monster. The thing they call love, for sheer lack of a better word. It wakes up. Engulfing me. Engulfing everything there is. Silence.

In? Who? She. You may call her by any name. She, the character. She looks at the sea. No. The sea looks at her. They both look. Who looked first? Impossible to tell. Impossible. Even for her, that pays so much attention to everything, that keeps it all under control, that knows all the answers. Impossible to tell. Silence.

What is love? What is it, after all? Issue. Invention. Excuse. Social control mechanism. Game. Object of desire. Disease. Pure, pure fantasy. Delusion. Necessity. The thing for people who know no necessities. Nothing at all. The discussion goes on and on. So many words.

People like talking. It’s all there’s to do. It’s the swimming moves, in open sea. One arm, then the other, and back again. Makes sense, works, takes you back to dry land in perfect mathematical progression, logic, tedious. Until the sea tells you otherwise. Until it wakes up and says slower, faster, maybe now, maybe never. Until it sucks you deep down and swallows you and spits you out and grabs you in and lets you go.

It, the object of empty, superfluous analysis. That which cannot be foreseen, accounted for, contained. Which cannot be held in anybody’s hands for more than a fraction of time, for it will always find cracks from where to pass through and keep moving somewhere which domain could never be claimed. It, that is sovereign, unassailable, indifferent. It, that exists contrary to you, beyond your beliefs or conformity. That stays still, mute, deceased, non existent, for ages and ages, for more time of all times, till it awakens someday that never was, and takes over every single piece of time and existence you swore belonged to you and you alone. A thing of all things and of nothing at all. With no beginning and no end. No adjectives, no verbs, no words, per se, no numbers, no DNA, no qualifier, of any kind, coming from even the greatest of the intellects. Whatever for… that… it… after all? What for?…

The other loves… ok. Loving one’s children, friends, family members, mankind… Love calmly, in the natural comings and goings, as we meet and miss and meet again, in the moderate emotion of being together, then apart. Me, right here. You, over there. See each other all the time now, very rarely later. All the time again. Normal. Good. Reasonable. Socially useful. Psychologically justifiable. 

The other love… Silence. Impossible to talk without it, the sea. And she, the character.

She just sat there. For five minutes, for two hours, for many years, forever. It… Calling. It… Wanting to wake up. The sea. The sea. And it will. Because it cannot be contained. Because it should not have any names, or theories, or speeches. It, that exists on its own. It, which is not an idea, nor an object, nor even a feeling. It’s not. Not, absolutely, a feeling. It just IS. Out, in, around, through. Magnetism which makes you need what is not necessary, leaves more alive that which it kills, makes unbearable that which has never been better. The non achievable materialisation of all paradoxes. 

It looked at her.

She looked at it.

Or was it the other way around?

Or was it at the exact same time?

Impossible to tell.

Even for her. The character. She, who couldn’t pay that much attention to it all any longer, who doesn’t have the strength to control a thing anymore. She, who doesn’t know the answers. In that, her beauty. Silence. Silence…

Explosion. The sea stands tall, huge, rebellious. And she can stay sited. Or get up. Dive, head first. Jump, on her feet. Walk into water and submerge, consensually. Not come in, in any way. Breathe under water, even if painfully. Struggle, for all times. Live, eternally, in drowning. Die, at each second. Merge with the water, perhaps, somehow…

To her, many, the possibilities.

To it, sovereignty.

Myself, that I called “character”. Love, that I called “sea”.

She… It…

The two of us… And this gravitational force.

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