Christ descends through the rain

 

Today we will remember the symbolic cross of his death. We who are not Catholic. My mother is agnostic, my son is atheist and I am Christian. Christ is in me, as I am in life. That without passion, there is nothing in the world for anyone. The grace of love and forgiveness descending through copious drops of rain, wanting to wash the world of atonement. The shed blood of the lamb that will come to take away the sin of the world. Why not today? What has been done so late. Good Friday. Today we will receive the compass of the leisure hours. The cross of fearful times. Grace in advance. Behold, I open the windows and doors. It is Christ visiting us.

It's raining heavily. I've already had coffee. As I wandered my eyes over the lakes outside, among the grass bent by the tractor, in the tank, in the removable pool, filled to the brim, reminding myself that the Sun Hunter is already on the march of the heavens and I still find myself here, without knowing how to say goodbye to the world or find gold in it as Abrunhosa sings, that neither white roses nor rivers of gold, it is always more of the same, except for the music, except for the furry ones and the miracles of God in my dreams, guiding me in the dark, the world is still a cave analogous to Plato's cave. Why the hell did they forget me here, why didn't they send me the safe conduct that allows me to observe everything from a higher point? It's because someone still needs me, to invent a song that speaks louder about the need for love as the basis of everything, or because they want to see me show it with words and actions, and I wake up inside, to remind you, who listens to me, who hides and conceals that for you too, silent love can be revolt, a wild beast on the loose, a path of no return, in the narrowness of a wall, where we climb to glimpse nature and it, in its gentleness and generosity, gives us back intact the way we see what's around and inside, what's above and what's below, makes us suddenly find the reason that makes the mountain move from its place, that makes the heart move in the attempt to give substance and foundation to everything we carry with us, after all the suffering, the crying, the lament, the sad regret, the nostalgia and the wind, to find just a little, a tiny bit of yeast and increase in homeopathic doses, that destiny that takes care and doesn't reveal itself in the time that we wanted, what comes after that pain, after the destruction of foundations, after all the Sundays paused, all the deadlines missed, the uncertainties turned into anxiety, what really comes after all the chains break, what we contracted and kept, what comes from a corner of life, beyond what we are allowed to see, and the master hides with some mischief and makes us believe that life is an abstract plane, where we insert, write and then circumscribe the word, the language, the act of being after the feeling, an authentic human being, then yes, then, when there are reasons for joy, when we reach the peak of illusion, after falling to the ground, with our dreams crumpled, condensed in a hand, he will say let's go, let's go then and we will go!

And until we go, we are just crosses and torments, thoughts, disconnected actions, inspirations and some verses that we live until then. Until the departure, when clocks change, inert times, seasons are poured out, spring and summer, on everyone's table, or else, for dessert, hovering like uncertainty, a bit of autumn will be poured out on us, the continuation of winter or punishment, only the continuation of eternity left for me on this day, only the coffee missing from my cup, only the cigarette burning in the ashtray and reminding me that it is always too late to smile, it is always too early to leave, that my laughter has stopped for now, that the earth awaits the tears that will come to overcome me. And only when happy or unable to win the heart, will I say all the words, repeat all the prayers and prayers, say do not return or say return, or stop my lips from begging around you. And only then, in the awareness of reality, will they give me the good news that will allow me to leave without feeling homesick, without leaving behind memories, without any cross that stains my journey that will be called, instead of joy, some ode of plenitude and that will go without a name, because pain needs no nomenclature. The cross always comes, blindness long before, so let this excess of clarity break through the fog, cut the illusion, the cord that ties me to this insanity! May the music grow, may life shine with rosebuds and jasmines, with all kinds of flowers, may it be spring, while you are here and I can finally appreciate you, seeing you from another point, and rejoicing that your joy is my freedom and tastes like freedom. I will rise from the cross and I will let myself embark on that little point of light, between life and the rest that encloses me, in this heavy corporeality. As a way of delay, Buckley arrives, uniting fire and water.