Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Terminus

stone; fragrant nature or a stream of rushing water; empty roads and inconceivable barriers. Everything that I have to move between—to understand how I can modulate the body, hearts, lines. Not to insert myself, no. But to compose myself, yes. Children? Lots of children? That ’s an open question. A face of stone and no descendants, is that enough? No, not generally, not for mankind in general—but is it enough for me? Does this reward me for living and console me for imminent death? Am I not missing some treasure? A map that would lead me to it? The discovery of a map on the bottom of a wooden chest? A trip on foot, a shoulder bag, on a path my boots have never trodden and along which hostile strangers and demons appear who must be defeated? Don’t I need a delicate young woman to save, an older woman to care for, one who might be my mother? Shouldn’t I be welcoming a friend who comes knocking on my door? Inventing a kingdom? So I laugh—the lines tickle me; they charm me. When they assail me, I bend them and tie them into knots I then stuff into a bag and throw with all my strength into a forest of desire. I compose. I build. Understanding a woman, one single woman, the one in reach of my body and breath, it would have been a start, the first coin of my treasure. I didn’t know how to offer my hand. From now on, the world is out of reach—fog outside—a failed adventure.

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