Today, humanity, enslaved by computers and cell phones, has replaced a hyper-concrete organ that leaves no room for the future, just as it denies the sacred values of a programmed life—as it is—to provide answers, a devotee of the predictable and the obvious. But a life without questions is impossible, otherwise the spirit dies and humanity remains distant from any kind of search that leads to the essence of the only truth. Tibullus suggests: „Be a crowd unto yourself.” Truth is necessary, because without it, we will never have a meeting point that can reveal ourselves to others, and others to ourselves. The worst tragedy is the indifference of God, who reveals himself to no prayer. A silence that scratches time and the brain of humanity awaiting that „vital lymph” that will free us from the remorse of the impossible quiet-waiting of this alien alter ego and bring us closer to the icon of mystery. Compassion is love of man for man if it arises from that kind of feeling; otherwise, it is quite another thing. The „viaticum” is not always death, where one goes in search of the light, in conquest of the existential root. The body and the spirit, though bound by the same fate, are two completely opposite universes, where utopia is a „hero” who lives, even in death (keeping in mind the concept of Thomas More, for whom the deceased realize past and present realities in the spirit of divinity, and of Tommaso Campanella, who welcomed good men into the „City of the Sun”).
Utopia, like poetry, often proves painful when it seeks to be: it conquers, and is something that is lived and killed. We know that the reality of poetry is a semi-closed and arduous path. Never work on works for eternity, but rather free yourself from the overestimation of your own private unhappiness to denounce the evils of the global system; To offer contemporary messages of civilization in this darkness that envelops us like a chimera, like the only fairy tale that caresses us. To offer verses that are locks of our soul, tears like magical jewels. Panic-filled sensuality when the wind caresses us with orange blossom lips and the moon warms us with poppy blood. All words, however, would be inadequate to describe the depth of this feeling (Universal Love), where darkness and light coexist like life and death. In reality, everything is reduced, because the soul knows that beyond love is Nothingness. Presence, therefore, as love, defense, entity, respect, essence for Love; but also dignity, balance towards men and things, the supreme synthesis of recollection. The reality of Death that strengthens the value of Life. And the love of the „Father,” in His Presence and Power that manifests itself, and is the reason for it. A sensation of things to come, or truly experienced within us that have yet to happen? Desperate emotion, like a vision that is completed within something that crumbles, and being returns to the human rubble: color, note, language. Utopia, like an unreal reality where the miracle is accomplished, immortalizing memory in every gesture; where we represent the magic of the word in the most complete and isolated suspension. We find ourselves simultaneously before two realities: one sincere, the other deceitful; the microcosm and the macrocosm, both eternal and unattainable. Utopia, like a joy that possesses us but also like a death that consumes us as we live: the breath of an instant, the moment infected by a reflection; a path that unites or one that disjoins: fragments of reaction that bind the various times of the condition and draw from futility the pettiness of their usefulness. Here, then, is the lapidary placement of the verse where the only reality of the double meaning resides.
Suffering and extreme love emerge, two opposites that share intensity. We are reminded of Rachel, the protagonist of Virginia Wolf’s first novel, and the perfect, impossible happiness she longed for (which, like justice, is not of this world). „What is death? Nothing… Happiness, perfect happiness”… A ball of yarn like a two-faced god, representing joy and pain, transparency and deception, limitation and transcendence, distinct substances to be unified in the vastness of space. Puppets on the leash of time, captured by that condemnation called freedom or mystery (no one escapes their own „I” that generates the condition of morality). Man as enemy of himself, the shadow in conversation with the deceased. The body starched by the wax of the air, the „electricity” of the blood between the cells, the pituitary gland of high tension, fulcrum of control, emotion as a universe of images. But even when violence no longer touches our days, the season of existence ends and the jaws of the nightmare between sacredness and invention open: nullification, not as a denial of affections, but as an affirmation of the opposite. In all that has no witnesses, in that which cannot be told, in that which lives and dies with being, which has forged the eternal symbiosis between the abstract and the concrete, between blood and bones. Universal, as the sacredness between certainty and doubt, between the real and the nonexistent, between the debatable and the dogmatic; the link between freedom and conscience, the relationship between the individual and the community. Projecting the nakedness of our secrets that illuminates within and beyond its field of investigation. Raising our gaze toward the absolute in the progressive transformation of forms, surveying that parade of scenarios that captivates us. The ghosts of the unconscious emerge, agitated and dissatisfied, and the destruction of the finite generates a new beginning. Here, then, Poetry becomes a gift, flowing into cosmic pessimism, in that verse that Silvia Plath left us: „To die is an art.” A metamorphosis that gives life to new waste, a dense, inviolable mystery of which being continues as part and not cause in the infinite monad that is God. The enigmatic order of this human substance that does not exhaust itself to pay homage to an earthly carpet, that knows not the pity of the flesh and the anguish of tears: the Fil rouge of Life that can only begin in the intimacy of the conscious self. Solitude as creativity, recovery of memory (Milan Kundera). Reconnecting to the Epochè (suspension of assent) to be pulse and breath in the urgency of the word that becomes sacrifice. Stopping at the symptom to avoid crossing over into the syndrome. Writing as therapy. Heidegger states that: „In solitude, language, which is the dwelling place of being, decomposes.” Being simultaneous is soaring in the unconscious, offering the reader the „laurel” of a Polyphonic Self. All this allows us to set aside the metachronic problem of the „Mutable” and approach the real sphere of solitude to relive „in the only possible way, which is the present one” (Leibniz). A fate that unites being with Creation, substance with the word, the Principle with the limit.
Clay worn by the day, the purple mouth of a child sacrificed by dawn’s coffin in its tangle of horrors and illusions… Mirage as deception and truth. The various states of water, of man, of dreams, of conflicts, of meanings. Water, as a maternal universe; protection, refuge, fear, illusion of a today bound to yesterday and estranged from tomorrow, still anchored to the rejection of truth. A luminous path leading to Eternal Nothingness: fallen in love with one’s own pain, life’s companion, a diorama of silence, Love, of an unreal atmosphere in an infinite panorama that overturns any apothem of absurdity. Emotions that cannot be told but only lived, the turmoil of a morality colliding with being itself where emotion, in its pure state, turns fire into ashes. A great love that dresses us in light, conscious of choosing darkness, making us the last fragment of its unity. Time, however, is the garment that absorbs our blood in the truth that sprouts and cannot be killed at that point, which flees like a shadow, sowing cuttings of death.
The thought of knowledge remains immortal, where anguish desecrates the heart of the rose that has the sigh of the sky and the color of the night. Distance from the hypocrisies that often fill everyone’s mouths, but as a reflection that the Spirit may operate in truth, in the principle of honesty, and that it may defend everywhere and always the sacred values of life and family, the common good, the cell of society. May adults be more attentive to the dreams and needs of adolescents, often abandoned to indifference and mental degradation, to the horrors of a denied childhood that go beyond war, disease, and hunger. May school and family be models of humanitas and respect, even if respectability and culture often never go hand in hand.
To perceive that in this space and time, appearance has always surpassed reality. And innocence is destined to remain balanced, humiliated, between factual truth and rational truth. Writing as utopia, the seed of the word that is gratified by its continuous giving; as Faith that perfects the reason of Truth; anguish and man’s only salvation, far from all political hatred and social envy. Through the eye of the needle of that radical poverty, he frees himself from it; he empties himself of his own body, nourishing himself with his own conscience; he is the bitter leaven of poetry, the cell of perception. It is God who dwells in the heart of those who work and compose unknowingly. It is prayer that elevates us; that builds a spiritual Temple where the soul is „employed” as a living stone that suffers, that demands ever more from the word, not as a matter of surrender, but simply of Love. Opening ourselves to the world means offering the contents of our soul (res cogitans and res extensa), distinct substances, to God, creator and son of all time. It is seed and flower, peak and wave, root and cross, in worship of the God of Love, beauty, and truth; pregnant with humanity, secret, and passion; death and resurrection; hypogeum and stars; splendor and sap of universal memory. A lived experience that expresses sentiment fully understood as a symbol of civilization; of love and pain waiting to draw from the mysterious source of tomorrow (no one can mortgage the future, nor have a preliminary meeting with destiny), but which we have the certainty of already knowing, with the eyes of the heart. It should not be excluded that the mind (echo of necropolises and chaos) is „forced” to mimic a dual and Spartan reality; to individual differences; to constant appeals to fear, to vandalism (which is the desperation of the marginalized); to the repeated filters of elaboration, (waiting for the yeast of the scream to wander towards a stream, (autonomous choice); and the conscience to finally free itself from the many constraints and rest in its cradle of light, as Art and word; Spirit and flesh; both in relational life, as in profound harmony. Not knowing the solution does not mean ignoring or not being part of the problem, but unifying the heartbeat and the drama of being there, inclusive of reason and interest Light and shadow, man and woman, good and evil, the limit and origin of this pietas, a diaphragm of signals and emotions; a chrysalis of breath, a mastery of language and a sacred guest in the container of the iris, which is none other than the northern hemisphere of the Word. In this flavor of light, everything is temporal; only the embryo of the verse made blood survives, the eternal confrontation between creativity and reflection. There remains, therefore, the hope of always finding ourselves in this great sea of salvation that is poetry, the pillar of all existence, in this great miracle, which is life despite the utopia of writing and the reality of events. Let us, therefore, seek the roots of the „I” not only as the source of the moment but as the pure nourishment of Life. „Lord, reconnect me to the tree to which I belong: there is no sense in remaining alone.” (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry).
© 2026, DetectivPress. Toate drepturile rezervate.
