Ossídio Gaspar

On nights like this I know that nothing can be done.

On nights like this I know that nothing can be done.

The situation of the days before, accumulations of nothing as well, ends with an amountlessness that means nothing, writes nothing, can say nothing.

It does nothing.

The year as well.

It is a night of the year that will never end, because it is a year of nothing, and in no way exists, nor in any form may it stop existing.

It is a night like this one, of the years gone, and the one that will never actually pass.

It remembers everything and can do nothing about it.

I cannot leave it. It is in fact my departure. Endlessly leaving itself.

Letting itself be.

From the better years, perfectly memorised, and now completely actionless.

I am full of myself. The night is full of itself.

So full of nothing. No questions, no adventure, nothing to get away from anymore.

I am in no rush. And nothing arrives.

There is no time for anything else. Nothing but time.

Actionless time, amountless days of the night that cannot contrast, cannot repeat, cannot mean, cannot take away, give away, find a way.

Still, unpatterned.


Unthrown, untaken, undivided.

Everything to me. Nothing but everything.

The night of all things that build to all that is, with nothing to do.

No emergencies. No half-forgotten words needing to be rediscovered in a restless action of text. No half-memorised sentences looking for the language of their whole.

No halves. Just the whole thing.

A night.

A year.

Another day of it.

It is perfect time, untouched, untouching, untouchable. Seamless.

And seemlessness.

All is. I am and I am, and there is not a single gap, no leftover moment that would have as yet no idea where to insert itself. It is just a perfect constellation and I look at it with an unblinking stare to meet its neutrally metaphorical gaze.

And it might look at me. This whole.

But I am already embedded in its total perfection. It does not need me again. It does not require me. It has me.

I do not have to do anything.

And I do nothing. Full of it.

So perfectly full of it.

Just as if I were not there either.

As if I had not been here all this time, looking any different from it.

I am as finished as this night, as unfinished as the day it ends.

Endless. Perfect. Perfectless.

Just here.

Nightly. Daily. Yearly.

I am and I am. Without a person in between. Someone to ask a question about this time or that time. Another person who remembers as a person who does not. Then asks what a person is, what that person was and if a person is only in the end something that will be, not something that is.

I am too successful for that.

I am too much a part of the opposite question:

The one that does not need to know any more

The one that does not know anymore.

And forgets whatever the intended memory was.

Forgets everything successfully, all the intentions and the intending, as if there were no difference between forgetting and remembering, because the space that coincides with either of those moments has nothing to do with either moment.

It just is and they just are.

And this night just is.

And I have to be.

Nothing else.


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