It makes little sense to talk about the subconscious,
maybe even about consciousness itself:
there are no borders, no ground, there’s nothing
to stand on. I have a mind and a face,
but the mind and face have no me.
Everything reaches everything: it’s at once
both conscious, subconscious and unconscious
and everything else. But what, then,
is all that stuff with so many names: anger, pain,
anxiety, sadness? Even being angry, being in pain:
I can’t believe they really exist.
What could we compare them to in this floating world?
With the wind coming and going, with waves;
with cracks, an invisible line without breath
running though this beautiful midsummer evening.
If everything is in everything then maybe
in this everything are even the things
that separate everything from everything:
cracks, lines, borders…barbed wire
on which every spring a whinchat sings
and where tufts of goats’ or lambs’ wool flutter in the breeze.
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