oriol vilapuig

The idea is to have no interruptions, to carry on. To sleep, if necessary, but to be expectant while sleep goes about its business. To feel, to listen, to listen to yourself I mean, to perceive this faint voice that resounds inside the empty basin of your body. To accompany and feed these voices, to state them, name them, make the experience of others one’s own, change sides, take the film off the commonplace to vibrate in the unnameable. To secure a question as the only possibility. To open the doors and accommodate the Sphinx. Disturbance. However, any attempt to respond appears irrelevant. Rhetorical questions devoid of rhetoric, answers that merely magnify this condition dominated by what is left unsaid, what is indeterminate. Interrogations, admirations, acclamations, contradictions, no matter whether you’re able to find a meaning to it. Indistinct polyphonies that hover inappropriately and simply confirm your want of understanding, your nature lacking in certainty.
Voices. You see the voices, you make them visible and hear them resounding deep down in your head, like a dry well. Voices which you inevitably end up trusting and that help you to establish limits.

This is it: limits, limiting oneself, what a wonderful discovery! To learn to add further emptiness to emptiness, nothing could be more useful. To be active in order to not stop being active is not so bad. I am looking for an undeniable assertion and I’ve reached this point. Deeds, acts, these certainly seem to be a good start. For, what is there beyond acts? Everything is residual, oh! admired residues! But now I know, I know that while these voices speak to me and for me everything will be easier, I’ll have the hope that everything appears more intelligible.

No, you don’t understand. Don’t you realise? You must flee from all reductionist attitudes and give way to the supremacy of the indeterminate. Now, if you make the effort you’ll end up not perceiving anything, any sound, any vision, any voice.