Chink

One day, it finally happened.
I was in an enormous town, lost in some way, certainly tired of walking so much, and I turned a corner. A woman appeared and asked my name.
“It is precisely you that I was searching for a very long time”, she said through her entire face, not just her mouth (I am not sure of having heard any sound. It was winter and I had protected my years from the extreme cold of the north).
“Why”, astonished I asked, “I am an unknown here, as indeed almost everywhere in this entire world. I myself can not even remember where I was born and if I have a home or what they call a family. Each day I am losing some form of connection with my previous identity, if I ever had any. I am too old, I feel disfigured (by the way, do you know F. Bacon self portraits? I see a stuff like that when I look at my pictures, when I watch my image at the mirrors of the shops, in the show cases beside the empty streets). Actually, I only hold some credit cards whose codes I forgot. I have also in my pockets some coins of a strange kind of money, probably collected in several countries in former travels. I am hungry and thirsty, I would like so much to be in front of my table, surrounded by dry flowers and bright computers, working in the heat, looking at the brightness of the fruits.”
“Well”, she answered, “I heard of you, I have read what you have written, in fact I have done some exhaustive research about your life, and here I am to know you in person, immediately and completely. I care for you; for me you are the one.”
“But”, I said in great confusion, “do you think that you are my mother, or my wife, or my sister, or my daughter, or what? You are certainly mistaken. You are probably an illusion, my metaphysical alter ego, my narcissistic phantasm. It is true that I have written many things, but in a language that here nobody speaks or reads, a language so called Portuguese (remember, in old times we used to be known, and people spoke that language, because we were traders in the deep and dangerous sea, and every power wanted to take us the easy gold collected overseas). And all my life I angered to be happy as any one else does. I thought once that I had found a lover, the true love of my life, yes, the mythical romantic twin soul. I was tragically mistaken; there is no such thing in this world. That was a recent invention to compensate the mechanical life that we forced to live.”
“No more words”, she said, “come with me” - and strangely her face had an emanation, a light, that seemed so beautiful and quiet, that I felt loosing weight and conscience and like being transported into a complete different kind of atmosphere. Comfort had penetrated me so deeply that I was surrounded by roses, by the velvet of their touch, and I could hear no watch sound or noise, or even birds singing. Reality, if there was any, had turned into the subtlety and sweetness of a long kissing, as if two lips had involved me forever, closing me inside.
“Am I dead or alive? Have you any supernatural power, are you a sort of witch? What kind of drug did you give me, are you like the two shelves of a carnivorous plant, when they absorb the victim in a state of outmost pleasure? How can you fit so completely in my desire, if desire comes precisely from something missing, something that we can never get or identify?”, I whispered.
I must end this chronicle, saying that I have forgotten everything since then. That is why the paper following these lines is blank. In fact, all the rest of my published work (my opera magna) will be blank eternally. Sorry for that. Not even what is written before is very trustable, to put myself in the place of the reader.