You raise your eyes to the sky when you feel pain, when you hope for someone or something to stop it. You believe.
“What is pain? A black mark on your conscience, a dividing line, a sudden erasure. Someone who has disfigured you, or better has buried you, forgotten you. You try and understand why your beloved one has left you in the cold of your dementia, in the hardness of your patience, but all that is left is a devouring birth, a handful of pained straw on which you don’t want to lie anymore.
Pain is a handful of mud with a breath of soul so subtle that it recalls the first pouring of man.
Maybe God used mortar instead of mud, maybe God created Adam with exquisite marble, a big white marble slab, maybe God extracted it from his own hands, maybe God had a human soul and felt this marble press his fingers. And became like Michelangelo. What poets can’t stand is the fact that God has created them as such and stays behind them like a watchman, a great teacher running his fingers on matter, always keeping them school-age, they can’t stand the fact that he doesn’t want to explain them why he hasn’t known death.
God is many light years away from us. Maybe he is already dead, but we still feel his beats, his poisons, his imposture; if God has created love, well we can do without it; if God has created children, we disown them. Until he – who is our precursor – explains us why man was born half human and half snake. And holy as well.”
The ceased pain often makes you deny, but maybe, all in all, believing and denying are the same thing.