Death in Spring

Breathing. Only the chore and sadness of breathing and breathing, as things change from tender to dry, new to old, the night-moon that grows thin then swells, the fireless sun that lights up, the soughing of wind that transports, shatters, gathers, and drives away the clouds, raising and flattening the dust. Only the sorrow of going to sleep and waking up, feeling life without knowing where it comes from, aware that it will flee without knowing why it was given to you, why it is taken from you. Here you are: there is this and this and this. And now, enough.

They want you to be afraid. They want to believe, and they want to suffer, suffer, only suffer, and they choke the dying man to make them suffer even more, so they’ll suffer till their last breath, so that no good moment can ever exist. If the rocks and water rip away your face, it’s for the sake of everyone. If you live with the belief that the river will carry away the village, you won’t think about anything else. Let the suffering be removed, but not desire, because desire keeps you alive. That’s why they’re afraid. They are consumed by the fear of desire. They want you to suffer so they won’t think about desire. You’re maimed when you’re little, the fear is hammered into the back of your head. Because desire keeps you alive, they kill it off while you’re growing up.

La mort va fugir pel cor i quan ja no vaig tenir la mort a dintre em vaig morir...

You can have everything you want, but accompanied by pain, until you learn not to want anything.

Una gelosia em sortia de dins i m’enterbolia, una gelosia de mi mateix, de tot el que havia mort en mi a cada petita estona de respirar; el que jo havia estat, jo l’estimava.

I van esguerrant els homes perquè diuen que una ombra es va ajuntar amb una altra… tenen por. Volen tenir por. Volen creure i volen patir… patir i només patir i ofeguen els qui moren perquè encara pateixin més… perquè pateixin fins al darrer moment, perquè res no sigui bo, i si t’arrenquen la cara les pedres i l’aigua és pel bé de tots… i si vius pensant que el riu s’endurà el poble no pensaràs en res més… que se t’endugui el patir però no el desig… perquè el desig fa viure i per això els fa por. La por del desig se’ls menja. I és per no pensar en el desig que volen patir i de petit ja t’esguerren… perquè el desig fa viure ja te’l maten mentre vas creixent…

I caught her one day eating a bee. When she realized I was watching, she spit it out, saying the bee had flown into her mouth. But I knew that she ate bees. She would choose the ones that had drunk the most wisteria juice and keep them alive in her mouth for a moment, let them play a little before swallowing.

Before the rain began to fall, more thunder sounded, as if they sky were rent and the lightning had come to cauterize the heavenly wounds.

I stopped by the edge of the river and covered my ears with my open hands so I would not hear the quiet.

We played at being afraid. They’re coming, she would exclaim. And we ran back and forth, our hearts filled with fearful blood because we didn’t know who was coming, from what direction, if there were many of them, or if it was just the one conjured up by the fear our voices awakened in us. They’re coming, they’re coming. We hid behind tree trunks. We would stand very still for a moment, then suddenly thrust our heads out from the side of the tree, quickly hiding again, as if each of us represented "they" for the other; we never knew who they were—they never arrived. When we emerged from behind the trunk and listened, there was nothing to be heard: only the breath of light and earth, and the air that dwelt on high.

Men who do things are men who are already dead.

They are consumed by the fear of desire.

The man cupped his hand in front of his lips, speaking to me out of the side of his mouth, so no one would hear – he told me that he enjoyed watching people die.

The snow had turned to glass, growing green and blue; a rose colour filled our eyes until they almost died. We stayed until we too felt that we too were metamorphosing into trees. We could feel the frost-cold roots beneath our feet, growing, binding us to to the ground.

I tot el que quedaria, potser, seria només un senyal de peus molls damunt la terra per on hauria fugit corrent; d’aquells peus que s’enduien al damunt una cosa tendra i tèbia que m’hauria ajudat a viure i a dormir i a respirar...