Status Updates From La pasión según G.H.

Ya si me está empezando a gustar

A note exists between two notes of music, between two facts exists a fact, between two grains of sand no matter how close together there exists an interval of space, a sense that exists between senses-in the interstices of primordial matter is the line of mystery and fire that is the breathing of the world, and the continual breathing of the world is what we hear and call silence.

I had, yes, I still had the desire to take refuge in my own fragility and in the sly, yet true, argument that my shoulders were a woman's, feeble and slender. Whenever I had needed to, I'd excused myself by arguing that I was a woman. But I was well aware that it's not just women who are afraid to see, everyone fears seeing what is God.

And me—who would want me today? who had already become as mute as I was? who, like me, was calling fear love? and want, love? and need, love? Who, like me, knew that I had never changed my form since they had drawn me on the stone of a cave? and next to a man and a dog.

The truth that doesn't transmit itself even to those who can see. Is that the secret of being a person?

But, what bound me most of all in a fright of love, had been, in the depth of the depths of the salt, your saltless and innocent and childish substance: with my kiss your deepest insipid life was given to me, and kissing your face was the saltless and busy patient work of love, it was woman weaving a man, just as you had woven me, neutral crafting of life.

— I remembered you, when I kissed your man face, slowly, slowly kissed it, and when the time came to kiss your eyes—I remembered that then I had tasted the salt in my mouth, and that the salt of tears in your eyes was my love for you.

With disgust, with despair, with courage, I was giving in. It was too late, and now I wanted.

And I want to know if hope was a contemporization with the impossible. Or if it was a way of delaying what's possible now—and which I only don't have out of fear.

—and I see that there is something more serious and more inevitable and more nucleus than everything I used to call by names. I, who called love my hope for love.

I'm bidding farewell, I barely know what it is anymore, I don't remember.
Maybe I'll find another name, much crueler initially, and much more it-self. Or maybe I won't. Is love when you don't give a name to the identity of things?

...even in secret, freedom doesn't take care of guilt. But one must be greater than guilt. The tiny divine part of me is greater than my human guilt. The God is greater than my essential guilt. So I prefer the God, to my guilt. Not to excuse myself and to flee but because guilt diminishes me.

The ethics of the moral is keeping it secret. Freedom is a secret.

Am I moral to the extent that I do what I should, and feel as I should? All of a sudden the moral question seemed to me not only overwhelming, but extremely petty. The moral problem, in order for us to adjust to it, should be at once less demanding and greater. Since as an ideal it is both small and unattainable. Small, if one attains it: unattainable, because it cannot even be attained.