Consciousness often lives in a finite space, beyond its limits it ceases to exist. It is the strip of sand that the waves wet and then abandon, it is neither sea nor land.
There are cycles in which the distance between opposites is so great that as you travel down the road you forget where you started, and you do not realise when you have arrived. Consciousness dies in the unawareness of the way.
Those moments, when instead the distance tightens, make me tremble. Dense and violent it makes its way into my body. My body, that artefact of a civilization foreign to feeling. At once I am dead and alive, I see the fragments that make up time and the greatness of each choice.
Consciousness lives only exceptionally in an infinite space. I remember a man walking on a thread of light, his steps resting exactly where they should have rested. They were not chosen, they were a gift, a purpose.
Special thanks to Daphne for the English translation
