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To whom observes and deduces, mirages and hallucinations.

Living bodies fallen in the chaos of these appearances.


If life is a play and, as the poet says, theatre is the nature’s mirror; a broken mirror, that reflect a perverted reality, it will reflect an image of conflict’s resonances. The friction of these living appearances.


I’m feeling that reality is perverting around me.

I’m suffocating.

I’m looking for a relief, in vain.

I’m feeling that reality is stripping me apart.

Parts of me are dragged off, thrown away.


Voids are open wide, unspeakable, fall silent.


Which kind of subhuman resources do we need to be able to dance with our shadow?

Which kind of locks do we have to force in order to find a way out?

The conjunction of the forces is sabotaged.

It adapts to the extraordinary conditions that is submitted to.

It perverts in response to the pressure of continuous upheaval.

Chaotic forces that explode, destroy, annihilate.

They erode and integrity without shape.


I’m looking at myself while I’m vanishing.

In an inverse movement, your face, your voice, and everything that you meant is endlessly and necessarily coming back.

In the same way, but in opposite direction, how much I meant to you is sliding away.

I’m dead for you. Necessarily.

The sum of the minimal moments lived, deleted. Scratches, scars, and a lot of falling dust are left.

An absent.

I’m sitting enveloped in a corner of shadow.

I see all these people passing by in front of me.

They are so close and so far away.

They can’t see you; so much the shadow is thick, so much the light, out there, permeates everything.

Not even your voice can breaks that shadow, which limit breaks any trial, from the most timid to the most stubborn.

I’m feeling that, as much as you live in me, I’m dead in you.

Left to perish, inexorably.

And this is going on and on, again and again.

A crowd of corpses.

The same body buried, again and again.

Each time exhumed, each time a bit more decayed.

Each time exhumed, each times a layer of make up.

Each time, again and again.

Each time pushed into the pit, each time exhumed.

Each time someone let you disappear.

Each time you dig through the soil’s layers that are covering you and through your grave, you exhume yourself.

Each time and again, again and anew, you find yourself within yourself, on your own.

There is no solution.

Claudio Cristini © 2024