I sit at the window and look out. The world is so vast and confusing. So completely impregnable and so disconcerting. I look out and see things that I can name, but do not know who compose in me the vastness of the lostness. That is why I go away from the window to limit my gaze, so as not to run the risk of exposing myself to this vastness of lostness, but the narrowness of the room is also unable to remove my fragmentation and alienation. So I close my eyes and turn to myself, but in me I find an empty, meager field. And the breadth of me accompanies me to the core. But where should I still flee from myself, where do I turn, where hide me?
I long and I do not know what. I consume myself and do not know the goal. Everything seems to be lost in this infinite void, to be lost, and to be unattainable. There is nothing I can think of, what I cling to, what I could relate to. No stop, no way, no prospect, and the dull confusion, in spite of the emptiness, sank into my thoughts, made them dumb, lame. Where should I turn to when there is nothing worth a donation? It flickers before my eyes and reality presents itself as a laser that burns into my eye and hollow out, like the landscape, like the moment. I am stump, blind, and rigid, because there is nothing to do, because hope has disappeared. Because everything was. Because everything has happened.
But I feel a gentle touch. My hand is seized, and in the first moment I will only run away, into the middle of this landscape, which means death, into the hopelessness and the circle from which I am actually going, but in my paralysis I find no action and no want more, so I leave my hand to touch, because I can do nothing more. I feel that my hand is touched, gripped and embraced, and in the inner landscape of myself it begins to rain and the rain brings back the green, and life, and becoming back. My fingers begin to move and my hand covers the hand that holds them. Fresh, juicy, lively green, which refreshes me internally. The sun is bright in the sky and smiles at me. Encouraging, and finally I can open my eyes. You squat as I did on the ground, in the corner, into which I have retreated and hold my hand. How long? How long did it take me to touch? It does not matter.
Patiently, you waited for me until I was ready to accept your touch, that I was able to open my eyes and return your approach. My eyes fall in yours and let it fly. And the vastness of the room does not change, but it is no longer threatening, but protects me.
“You, I’m glad you’re back,” you say softly, and it’s nothing else. Just these few words that bring me back and give me security that inflame the light and make it clear that let me know that what I considered a threat is an invitation that is what you are to me and the life, hope and longing and making the venture and the laughter possible. There is no room for concern or fear. I will not slip back into the outer position of it, for you have made me a vision, a word, a touch where you have brought me back into the flow of words, into the flow of life from which I am had fallen out.