Where to?
Where are you going? What is the
thing that haunts you? Why can’t you be satisfied with what you have? Why
aren’t you pleased? What do you want? What are you looking for? What do you
expect to find beyond the horizon? So many questions. All reasonable. All
practical. I do not want to be practical. Once again, I want to stand in the
center of the flow and feel a great motion flowing over me. It excites me. I am
in the middle of action, making love to life. Every crossing
of a ridgeline is a move from one section of the terrain to another. With
effort I break through the shell that encapsulates me in, and I will break
through the next shell too, until my time is done.
I walk because I want to walk. I
search because I enjoy the search. I like to feel that there are worlds ahead
of me. What is the thing that drives the large flocks through the sky? What is the thing that fills me with unrest?
That makes me twitch in place?
What is this vigilance, this
hunger, this craving? I yearningly gaze at the clouds that move across the sky,
at the large red sun setting, at the big bird that glides slowly, far over the
sky. I watch the greyish-pink misty horizon fading.
“Noman's land" what a
magical expression! Oh, nomad. The foot set in the ground has always asked her
uplifted partner: where to? Is there a meaning to this question? Do the
ebb and the flow have any meaning? Does the sunrise or the sunset? The magic
lies in the stretched, quavering motion between the two. That is where I am
going. There! There! The eyes, the hearts, are all attracted with hope. Will
and light. A transparent space vibrates between me and the horizon.
Nomad, oh nomad! The eternal
endless motion gives meaning to your life. I wander therefore I am. The
horizon, the dreadful feminine dune, the adventure of the precipice. Waves of
parched hills, glass-like black flint stones sparkling in the early morning
hours, drops of dew that leave the throat unquenched with disappointment.
Bare. No lies, no secrets. Hard,
dry, remote, indifferent, endless. Again, and again I throw myself into the
wilderness. Being curious I submit my body. Out there I am an only child. My
face follows the sun – east, south and west. On rare instances I am not
squeaking with effort, breathless, strengthless, withdrawn, coiled by the cold. On those rare instances when I do not pant
with dehydration, shivering from exhaustion, boiling hot on the verge of
collapse, I stand at the peak of a wave of effort and soil. My head raised I face a non-existing,
flickering, melting horizon created by my gaze. I grow with an effort equal to
that exerted by the four-legged creature who rose to stand on two feet. With
the same squeak as the one made by of the gills of a marine creature thrown
unto dry land. I have done it. I am doing it. I tread on melting soil for a set
period of time. I peak. I stretch myself
over the wall to see the new. Who is there? I am a child and I am obligated, I
am bound, crave to grow. I stand on my two feet, I am leaving my home. Curious.
To the next encounter. To the next horizon.
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