A life without a plot

A library, an analogue of a life broken into thousands of fragments

And I’m here,
as I told you before,
searching for traces
among the virgin shelves
Of this library.

Pages never read,
hard,
inviolate,
flow like stones
Under my fingers.

Pages of another life
Are parading uncertainly like beggars,
While I, sure,
glide through the dull crowd,
like water toward the last valley.

Stories never written,
stories never thought,
stories disintegrated into timeless fragments.
This is what I see among millions of words,
here is what shines, still (who knows why?),
in the terse impressionistic glimpse
enclosed in a repudiated minimalist Monet.

By now
no book,
no author,
no poet (blind or furious)
Will have any more reason to be.
For the only word has been spent,
and the sky,
deflowered,
Is now despicably dark,
dark of a night with no more need for darkness.

The soul (or a counterpart of it) has abandoned itself now,
among notes glimpsed as sketches from Beethoven,
among Freudian memories never experienced,
among hastily scratched and covered words.

In this explosion,
I swallow oxygen like wandering souls,
and live.

In this dying,
I am born again,
And my teeth, worn with milk,
Already gnaw the pellucid that cloaks me deep within.

My mother (who knows which one),
this morning, however,
Is lost in sibylline warbles,
and enjoys immensely
In feeling her flesh tear again
And her womb reveal itself to the day one more time.

In this (mad) race
Toward a semblance told only by the dying,
I wait. Wet and cold, I wait.
I do not breathe. I do not hope. Only I wait.
Suspended like a star in a little theater, I wait.

Someone, who knows,
Will see that a sheep (or maybe a never-nailed Christ) does not return,
and maybe,
hallucinated,
mad,
Or simply sick with unhoped-for breathlessness,
Will come looking for me among the dumpsters in the street.

The night is discolored,
without night,
And I think (perhaps) I am sleeping.

In sleep
even the pain
(pax romana permitting), falls silent,
and darkness recites,
benefactor and antagonist,
a life (from copulation to abortion),
(perpetually)
without plot.

Ad libitum
Ad libitum
Ad libitum…


Filed for legal protection with Patamu: certificate


A brief note on the purpose of life according to Lacan

According to Lacan, the purpose of life is closely related to desire and enjoyment. Lacan (1901 – 1981) believed that human desire is rooted in the pursuit of pleasure, which is influenced by social norms and expectations. He argued that individuals are constantly guided by their unconscious desires, seeking to satisfy them in ways that may not always align with social norms. Enjoyment, a term used by Lacan to describe excessive pleasure or jouissance, plays a significant role in shaping an individual’s life experiences and perceptions.

Wall portrait of Jacques Lacan
Wall portrait of Jacques Lacan. According to the French psychoanalyst and philosopher, desire is that “arrow” that every man must find within himself to try to live a satisfying life (within the limits of his inescapable existential condition).

In Lacanian theory, pursuing jouissance can lead to a paradoxical sense of fulfillment and dissatisfaction as individuals are trapped in a constant cycle of desire and lack. According to Lacan, life’s purpose is thus closely related to navigating these complex dynamics of desire and jouissance and coming to terms with the inherent contradictions and tensions that arise from them. Ultimately, Lacan’s thoughts on desire and jouissance suggest that the purpose of life lies in coming to terms with the complexities of human desire and the pursuit of pleasure while also recognizing the inherent limits and constraints that shape our experiences and perceptions.


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