Sortilegio

 

Philippe Garrel. “La cicatrice intérieure”. 1972

“… Your winding winds stood so
All that is my own
Where land and water meet
Where on my soul
I sit upon my bed
Your ways have led me to bleed…”

“Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless”. Paul Bowles

Aun a sabiendas de la constatación categórica de que vamos a morir, continuamos la farsa de la existencia ignorando la piedra angular de su teleología. Del mismo y corrosivo proceder, aun a sabiendas de haber perdido en algún punto del recorrido la esencia del amor verdadero, seguimos buscando la prueba pretérita de su existencia en el presente, la figura de un idealismo que sucumbe día tras día ante la palmaria evidencia de la inmarcesible realidad soez y grosera, egoísta y hábil gesto individualista pergeñado en las vísceras de un capitalismo demasiado consentido. We are feeded by big little white lies.