on terror

cali + ipiales, colombia

i am lying in my bed five flights up, and my day, which nothing interrupts, is like a clock-face without hands. as something that has been lost for a long time reappears one morning in its old place, safe and sound, almost newer than when it vanished, just as if someone had been taking care of it – so, here and there on my blanket, lost feelings out of my childhood lie and are like new. 

all the lost fears are here again.


so much salsa music and queso fresco
so few baños


the fear that a small woolen thread sticking out of the hem of my blanket may be hard, hard and sharp as a steel needle; the fear that this little button on my night-shirt may be bigger than my head, bigger and heavier; the fear that the breadcrumb which just dropped off my bed may turn into glass, and shatter when it hits the floor, and the sickening worry that when it does, everything will be broken, forever.


we laid around all day
and smoked in the park at night, stomachs empty


the fear that the ragged edge of a letter which was torn open may be something forbidden, which no one ought to see, something indescribably precious, for which no place in the room is safe enough; the fear that if i fell asleep i might swallow the piece of coal lying in front of the stove; the fear that some number may begin to grow in my brain until there is no more room for it inside me.


one step forward, two steps back: a story

(we went to get my camera lens fixed
by a friend of the cab driver – it was a small repair)

(but our bank accounts were frozen as
we lay prostrate in the city center without money,
even enough for a cigarette)

(international tolls)


the fear that i may be lying on granite, on gray granite; the fear that i may start screaming, and people will come running to my door and finally force it open, the fear that i might betray myself and tell everything i dread, and the fear that i might not be able to say anything, because everything is unsayable – and the other fears… the fears.


the sequel:

arriving in a border city at midnight
with no cash and no place to stay,

where if i see another no hay habitaciones sign
i may roll into the gutter and never leave this country.


i prayed to rediscover my childhood, and it has come back, and i feel that it is just as difficult as it used to be, and that growing older has served no purpose at all.


credit: the notebooks of malte laurids brigge by rainer maria rilke

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