188 pearls around the neck
Sadness that is bare and raw, and terribly transparent;
A sadness that is honest and knows its roots and faces its origins: this child.
Sadness that is bare, and vulnerable, for it doesn’t disguise itself as meanness, hatred or vengeance: it is a
child.
Sadness that is raw and harsh, making the blood run cold and the heart stop.
Sadness that is silent as a tomb, cold as marble: this child’s flesh.
Sadness that is real and profoundly felt, willingly or forcibly. Willingly, for each step, each gesture
brings us inexorably closer. A sadness that is conceived, that was built, just as the child was conceived.
Forcibly, for it imposes itself forcefully, establishes itself with force and then it crushes, and it would
require too much strength, the very strength that sadness has crushed. A child’s life, crushed.
And you find yourself excluded from the world. Excluded, for in all honesty this sadness cannot be
shared, told, disclosed or even understood. Except by the child.
Excluded, out of necessity, out of duty, for in remoteness resides the illusion of consolation, for in
solitude sadness finds nourishment.
Overwhelming serenity when, spent, all tears cried and gone, the memory of sadness itself has gone too,
only that of the child remaining.
Quietness without a wave, a ripple, a breath, a whisper. Silence. Freedom anew? A child anew?
Have I finally found a door to pass through that endless wall?
What a lie it would be to believe this.
Sadness that is bare.
Sadness that is raw.
Permanent.
Immutable.
You have cheated me.
Author: C.d.W. Lausanne, Switzerland, 1991
English translator: Sylvie Froschl
Illustration: Tim Gallo
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