...πάλι γύρισα μέσα σου και διέγραψες κάθε ελπίδα από πάνω μου. Ξυπνησαν οι εφιάλτες μου και μόνο στην σκεψη σου. Σε κοιτάζω να καταπίνεις ένα ένα τα χαμογελά μου και να μουτζουρώνεις με κάρβουνα τα μάτια μου. Χειροτερεύεις οσο πας. Το ξερεις αυτό? ΒΡΩΜΑΣ. Σε μισώ ολοένα και περισσότερο. Τα ψευτικα φώτα σου δε φωτίζουν τον δικό μου δρόμο. Τα μπουρδελομαγαζά σου δεν καλύπτουν την ανάγκη μου για μια βραδυνή έξοδο.
Είσαι μια φυλακή για μένα. Παίξε όσο θες με το μυαλό μου. Κάνε με να πιστευώ πως θα με κρατας για πάντα εδω. Τουλαχιστον ΞΕΡΩ οτι μπορώ να υπάρξω μακρυά σου.
Ενα ξωτικό, μου ψυθιρίζει τα μεσημέρια πως υπάρχει ελπίδα και φως...Κάπου στο νότο... Κάπου που δεν έχουμε προλάβει ακόμα να βάψουμε γκρι το τοπίο. Το είδα με τα μάτια μου. Το φως και το γαλάζιο... Τον αέρα να προσπάθει να με κάνει να αναπνευσω...
Μπορείς να με κομματιάζεις κάθε μέρα. Ένα ένα τα κομμάτια μου θα τα κουβαλήσω μακρυα σου...ΑΘΛΙΑ ΠΟΛΗ.
...It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and this question of removal is one
ΑπάντησηΔιαγραφήwhich I discuss incessantly with my soul.
'Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there
you would invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they say that it is built of marble
and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all the trees. There you have a landscape
that corresponds to your taste! a landscape made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!'
My soul does not reply.
'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement, would you like to settle in Holland,
that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land whose image you have so often admired
in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships moored at the foot of
houses?'
My soul remains silent.
'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find, amongst other things, the spirit of Europe
married to tropical beauty.'
Not a word. Could my soul be dead?
'Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in your sickness? If so, let us
flee to lands that are analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio. Let us go
farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at the Pole. There
the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and
increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness, while for our
amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured rays that are like the reflection of Hell's own
fireworks!'
At last my soul explodes, and wisely cries out to me: 'No matter where! No matter where! As long as it's out
of the world!'
Charles Baudelaire