Our truth

The early morning opened itself in a vacillating light. For me, the atmosphere was that of a miracle. I have reached the impossible of myself. Because I felt that Ulysses was again attached to the pain of existence.

This capacity to renew myself as time passes is what I call living and writing. Living and painting. Living and loving. Living and dieing. ... Around him, an emptiness blew, in which a man finds himself when he is going to create. Desolated, he provoked the great solitude. And, like an old man who has not learned to read, he measured the distance that separated him from the word. He lay down on my lap and flies through the solitude of a thought. A thought I can't have. It isn't mine. It isn't yours. It's his. Absolutely his.

He sometimes makes me divine. He sometimes makes me human. He sometimes makes me believe. I know what I'm doing here. I just don't admit it. It's mine. Not his.

My truth, our truth, this foreigner, this stranger whose face we were promised we would see in the end. The stranger that promised the truth. His truth. And my truth. It's ours. Nobody else's.