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Sacred father


The sacred words of my father, magnificent anxieties, unspeakable prophecies.

The stupidity, the ingenuity, the imagination, the good and the bad, the hatred and the violence, everything was foreseen, and he received it all into the great lake of the mind.

The insane, the sane, the talented, the poor and the rich, the incoherent, the rational, the snipers.

And he never spoke haphazardly; he analyzed. And it is no coincidence that the light of his eyes was gray, wise, filled with words and fantasies.

He was my father, the good man, the consummate scientist, the prophet of vulnerabilities, called solitude, of one with a good heart. It was the certainty; it was the uncertainty; it was the black and the white.

He hugged me with the soul and not the body, while I understood the reason for that scale, for the pyramid, the full sense.

He who challenges the Sphinx is a heretic, said the great critic, but just thinking about it is already heresy.

And if the challenge is to fly, on old carpets that no longer fly, and with cardboard wings, and instead to walk, with crystal wings that do not burn, perhaps one day we will marry the sun without moving from here.

If here below, he is waiting there, in the profound wilderness of the mind. He waits where writing does not hurt, where living is relevant and thinking does no harm. He waits, because light embraces the day if the night is not dark, but profound.

He waits for me.

And in waiting for answers and in the ardor of the wait, I see my father, the good man, the consummate scientist; I see the multiple inconsistencies, the consistencies and the heresies, prophecies.

Sacred words.