Epiphany



André Heron Carvalho dos Reis

It’s cold, it rains outside. I lean over my bed as warm as it is cozy. However, the rain insists on knocking sweetly on my window. If it weren’t enough, it’s night,
and the night of those in which there is a screaming silence, of those deafening, from which it is not possible to avoid. And then, very softly, I miss: the lack. It is that the night always brings with it the need for someone, it itself is the need itself: for something that illuminates. And all that darkness with that thread of coldness that touches and invades the soul, that same cold reminds me that there is a need for something that suppresses what is not full or filled, the lack.
I don’t understand what a full night is. Especially when accompanied by the cold brought by the rough rain.
But the certainty is that it always brings something: a memory, a feeling, an aroma, a dream; or the sheer certainty that it exists, and it exists so that we can exist in our fullness. So, it is not a sin at that moment to look in the mirror is to try not to see the dimension of the shapes that we were used to seeing, idolizing those curves that lash us. Why not look in the mirror and look for that lack, that need, to face what fills us and suddenly invades the soul?
I gently raise my hand towards him, that mirror that I ask and that shy away from saying things to me, but he does not hide his face from me, he is not able to escape and deny the reflection. The wind blows to announce the strength that is exhibiting outside. It’s the dark, it’s the silence, it’s the water, and all of them inside me, just. And then, horror! Nothing is missing! Nothing is suddenly missing. Why do I look in that reprobate image for what expresses unusual strength and clarity? But it does not exist, beyond the forms it does not exist it is just me and me in a mirror.
But we look, we always look, and if we look it is because we want to see beyond our eyes. We want to touch the impalpable and, suddenly, be able to think that the dream is possible. And then, again, she, the lack, is voracious and hungry inside the heart and mind of everyone who dares to touch that cold night. I sit in my felt chair embroidered by hand, prepare a cup of something very hot and foamy, light my
fireplace, and I simply put the same cup on the table, without anyone seeing how that flame that so beautifully consumes the flame of my fireplace burns.
It is not bearable to see the beautiful without being able to share it with someone. The other side of the cold is that we do everything to generate heat. And we surrender to the magic of fire. We light our fireplace, heat up our drinks, sit in our most padded armchairs. We sit there and surrender to simply looking at how it consumes, how it reaches its range of colors, and we look.
The problem is that, unlike the mirror, fire speaks. One looks at it, suddenly surrenders to the fire and, when it is least perceived, the mind slips anywhere. One can think of the day that has passed, the sounds that have been heard and it is still consuming, consuming …
Yes, the certainty we have is that besides its flames, something consumes within us. Despite the cold, the silence, the dark, we always insist on letting something consume and hurt, even if without medicine, within us. Maybe this discovery will show us how much
we still need to embody the shapes we have in the mirrors and flames inside our room.
Now it is lit …
Love.

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