"Based on your lines I write the story of my past, black past, submerged in abysses of perdition. Entrails of the earth, where is your provenance and as curse you emerge in search of knowledge..."
The precarious book 2
I felt, in my hands the power, my thought turned to glory on yellow sheets coming to life between passages of oblivion. They were my ancestors pouring the saga through my veins, the inky pen wielding ceaselessly a thousand stories that succumbed alone with the labyrinthine tumults of the mind and its own place.
Like rag it emerged murky from the waterway, dark waters churning in the endless spiral. A jewel ruined by the onslaught of nature, the heritage evicted on the shores of a penisla, vanished on the threshold of a night tragedy.
My task was to restore the work and my greatest amazement, the brightness detached just by touching it, just by rescuing it from a puddle, made me blind, as I grasped each evanescent sheet with my hands...
The precarious book, just like my life, something twisted transformed in the difficult transit to a remote place. Unknown, where knowing the future would seem to be virtue, something complicated but revealing, reliving the past, instead, as a tomb becomes the present of a nameless sorrow.
The undeserved story that seeks redemption through my inexhaustible suspense, passion; letter by letter like hourglasses looking at an imaginary desert. I am the one chosen by the dynasty, my passion for art led me to an inheritance left in writing.
"And that seed drawn to corner of papyrus, like a withered grain, dried up, then wet and cracked with its filaments seizing the face, branches that were born, origin of the willow autumn covering the infinite space before my eyes. Slow strokes coming from beyond, the names engraved on a bark, embossed like stamps of a surname. Faces entwined in fiction tale, stories of misfortune making way with the mouth of hurricane..."
The precarious book blinded me, like a window into the shadows of the past, it guided me in each new line, we were one in the spell of the silver night giving way to dawn.
I continued to fill its pages as if it had never been written in. The book spoke to me of generational failure and I got an answer as an allegory, things that I could have done in those times, when to think of existing would be impossible.
"And his branches wrapped me and I was root, the precarious book as a curse made me part of his yarn, he, flame of light and I a poet dominated by the souls, images of other lives, experiences as uninterrupted lineage where I was always and never was. And dreaming was impossible, I suffered all the pain of my ancestors, each leaf a face, book tree, book of precariousness turned against me in each verse. When I least thought it was existential, then pure surrealism; with footprints marked in the sky and the stars embedded under my lizard skin..."
I remembered the centenarian old man, climbing into the boat as he was swallowed by the maelstron. His face was resigned, but also, it was deliverance from all causes. I think he was undone and his voice with the shrewd experience, wanted to be part of the waters next to the precarious, as if knowing that someday one of the two would emerge, that being, his relief.
He would end his sorrow, tired of living so many lives, lives that did not correspond to him and that now fall on me, for me to continue them...
His words still echo in my mind:
"I give you the book. Do not worry, do not despair, in a past time that same volume came into my hands, under similar circumstances. But the difference was that on that occasion the penisla emerged with the swamp, but now it has disappeared. Have faith that in the distant future, perhaps, you can leave your work in the hands of some new age writer, who can take care of this damned precarious book..."
So were the precarious and I!, for years of years, Two, who refuse to disappear, the hand that writes it and the bright yellow folio of yesteryear.
I invite you to read the previous part:
The Precarious Book 1
