The Imagined Word (30): Signs of the Gods

HYPNOSWith his mother NixAsk yourself what the dead dream of. Enter the night, abandon the forms of anxiety, of vigilant doubt. Relax the tendon of fear and observe the inhabitants of your room, listen to them choose the poppies, immerse yourself in the river under the house when oblivion is the only relief for your aching hole. Go into the night and lie down. What the dead dream of belongs to an unspeakable hunger. And it is you, when in the REM phase you walk on water and, at the same time, fly, who say, almost scream: I dream for you. Then, with a start, you wake up.OnirosThe children of sleep are not lost in the nocturnal city. They cross the portals and, without counting the steps, enter this silence that has closed the cycle of the day and its customs. The children of sleep knead second lives, like ill-advised buns, in the heart of consciousness and consciousness lives its life bewildered by the waves. But they cannot reach the one who looks because the fear of remaining at the bottom does not let him sleep, or does not let him suffer the pain that occupies his name and squeezes him, or does not leave him with the mad palpitation of vengeance. So different and they have not known how to be the intruders on their eyelids. So changeable, so impossible to catch and they have been unable to tame a torment. The first to recognize these movements is Endymion since he was given the fame of being her lover. Natural History by Gaius Pliny the Elder Even if you sleep with your eyes open and do not need tears because this is how the gift of the son of Nix is ​​fulfilled, do you at least live? She descends and you cannot touch her, she arrives with her soft silver and kisses you, crosses you but where to correspond, to which mouth to give oneself, to which solid reflection. Even if you sleep with your eyes open, eternally beautiful and selfish, do you die? If you woke up, you would live a constant death, thirsty for life with its embrace. And, overflowing with something that is not blood, you would follow it when it hides or grows abundantly on it. In this greedy gift of sleep, a single warm body – and it is not you – howls at the Moon.

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