While my life is a ragged tissue of impossibilities and unfit dreams with a few holes of happenings, poetry is the path of endless possibilities, the impossible that turns into life.
Poetry as a method is a trail of the body, of the gaze, of feeling, sensation, imagination, which when followed allows one to turn the tedium of incarnation into enthusiasm of existing anywhere.
It is a way to embody the strength to transform instants right where they are, at the place where the body finds itself, with its pain, its tiredness, its defeat - becoming forgetfulness, remembering the dreaming. It is a way of dreaming while awake.
With this, the impossible method of a science of finding things out, with its impossibility of ever becoming applicable in practice - for in the precariousness of circumstances it is only an ideal, never realized, for lack of time and strength, for lack of an infinite patience (of peace to some day reach an infinite science), for an accumulation of daily demands - then becomes poetry:
Something that exists in an unpredictable way, that points beyond the scribbling on a piece of paper, beyond the voice that speaks or the thought that thinks, dyed with emotions and desires. It becomes a colored ink, invisible in the black and white of the page, a path through another dimension, perpendicular to in-between the lines.