I turn every little errand into a true lithurgy. Having time in my hands is nice, strangely invigorating. I walk as if I am trusted with a secret mission, one without a definite goal, an inner mission.
I crossed the Eiffel bridge in my pilgrimage today. Stopped in the middle, and looked down as if I were the passenger of a gigantic transatlantic cruise. Trillions of pixels twinkled on the water, on off on again, the sun almost on his zenith, leaning just enough to project the bridge's skeleton on the waters. Boats and ships of all kind tore the river apart like sharp scalpels, but the injured flesh of the creature closed magically every time, after the vessel's passing.
The trains announced their proximity through the faintest vibration first, a rehearsed earthquake they repeat on schedule every day. I suspended my belief in the solidity of it all, and entertained the idea that train, bridge and me, together, would fall in a clamor of electric explosions, blood and broken fuselage. And it was not painful at all, because the pixels down there would receive me lovingly and safely.
Then the pilgrim run his errands, taking ample time to detour and visit unknown places, rejoycing in the half closed doors, hiding universes of shadows and tiles and the freshness of plants. And the old fountains that can at least kill some of the many thirsts of the pilgrim. And the old bookshops, and places where forgotten things are still sold, and terraces like shiny baits for the tourists, and happy people, and old local people watching them pass by and taking their happiness with them, and many other shadows and wishes, blending perhaps with mine in the foz where all the waters meet.
Then, telling you about all those wanderings of mine closes this strange and wondrous circle I live in.
Nothing seems complete without it.
Sándalo Naranja
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