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Solenoid
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by the senses in our mind,
like you build a house
mock-up under a glass bell.
But the enormous world,
the world as it is indeed,
impossible
to
describe
through millions of senses
open like sea anemones in
the continuous tide of the
ocean, iseverywherearound
us and crushes us, bone by
bone, in its embrace. When
I was about twelve years
old my fear of the world
became acute and precise.
I understood then for the
first time that not the jaws,
the fangs, the claws, the
hooks, the thorns of bestial
monsters, not the phantasm
that my frail body would be
torn apart were the source
of my continuous anxiety,
but the emptiness, the
nothing, the unseen. I was
then avidly reading some
little brochures of fantastic
and adventure literature. On
Thursday mornings I used to
wake up at dawn and run to
the newspaper kiosk lest I
miss an issue. The facsimiles
were cheap and naively
illustrated, but the stories
they told filled me either
with wonder, enchantment
and enthusiasm or with
horror and anxiety. Be they
about temples and gold
bars from the jungles of
the southern continents,
about
cities
undersea,
about
experiments
of
psychopath
scientists,
about
extra-terrestrials
impossible to understand,
about intelligent viruses
that conquered the world,
about spirits invading your
mind and taking the reins
of your will, the stories
were populating my hours