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loves

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There are hiking trails that you walk up through larch forests, listening to the water of a stream gurgling down my throat. Then the trees become more sparse, there are only rocks and stones, the road becomes more difficult, closer, and after a bend you are in front of the ravine or a cliff or, if you're luckier, a hill so steep you can not even imagine forwarders.

also end up so loves, sometimes leave there looking into space, to inquire into that you never thought to meet the curve after a debate or a betrayal. The less powerful, the most sensitive, let go, you are swallowed by the void. As the poet Milan Antonia Pozzi, torn by love for his Latin teacher in high school and greek classic Manzoni opposed by his father, disappointed by the same lover, is left to dig in the heart of the anxiety, while the pain is magnified and His fire burned the strings that the still life. Antonia Pozzi December 2, 1938 was twenty-six. He went to the Abbey of Clairvaux, near Milan, swallowed dozens of sleeping pills and lay down on the grass and dry cold front of the church, waiting for the abyss to swallow. The black hole just wrapped it the following evening, the hospital, where he was taken after a farmer found her asleep on the lawn.

love ends, it will crumble like a hilltop and valley landslide while the heart is swollen, pump emotions, bile salt, the liver absorbs toxins. The words are transformed into sharp spears, daggers that tear in the skin, stones that hurt, they become stuck thorns in the flesh of the other. Or just get silence, a thunderous and deafening silence, a void so huge next to nothing that you wonder if it is logical that do not exist so badly. Or becomes memory, the image of a blond and thin rising from the sofa, was a last gesture in the air, rattling bracelets and scented narcissi.

also loves come to naught, then, well liked and seems wasted, thrown away. Or still lingers like a ghost - and the spectrum is the memory, is the illusion fall off some day vanish as a last blaze flares up and sets fire to the West, we live the last glow of dusk as the night falls cold and dark. The only thing to do is turn our backs to the abyss and return to the path, turn up at a crossroads and go down another path.

Photo © Hans Peters