One day, maybe soon.
One day I’ll rip up the anchor that keeps my ship far from the seas. With the sort of nerve it takes to be nothing and nothing but nothing, I’ll cast off what seemed indissolubly bound to me.
I’ll chop it off, I’ll knock it down, break it, I’ll make it collapse.
Suddenly disgorging my modesty, my pathetic schemes and mechanical concatenations.
Delivered from the abscess of having to be someone, I’ll quaff nourishing space anew.
By a series of insults and ignominies (but what is ignominy?), by explosion, by emptiness, by a total dissipation-derision-evacuation, I’ll expel from myself the form that seemed so well attached, composed, organised, so well matched to my kith and kin, so worthy, so worthy, my fellows.
Reduced to a humility befitting catastrophe, to a brute flatness such as follows a fit of terror.
Pitilessly relegated to my true rank, to the lowly rank which God knows what idea‑ambition led me to abandon.
In terms of arrogance, in terms of esteem, obliterated.
Lost in a far off place (or not even), with no name, no identity.
A fool, pummelling my undue sense of self-importance with ridicule, mockery and perversion.
Destitute in the underlying infinite-spirit open to all,
open myself to a new and incredible dew
by being dumb