It's beautiful, it couldn't be more beautifulthe morning when, after you've washed,after you've shaved, after you've cleanedyour razor blade, your brush, after you've glimpsedyourself in the mirror and discovered no causeof alarm on your face for you must be healthy, you mustbe healthy, you must be healthy, after you'vemade your coffee, after you've sharpenedyour pencil and you've checked the rubber is clean,without any fluff, after you've taken one sip fromthe cup lit by a sun come outafter a heavy snow, you reread everything you wrotethe day before and see it's all right. You don't need to destroy it all. The wood is good, the ironis good, the rafters are solid, the foundation isconsolidated too, without this quiet of a carpenter,of a mason, of a locksmith, of a man building himself a house,there's no point in the great disquiet praised by each artisan of our guild. All wise men uphold withouthesitation the wild truth of the necessaryanxiety, of the nourishing doubt, of the statelydistrust that could yield a good short story,an impeccable poem. You have to believe them. Butto do that, you have to be healthy, clean, and calm,you have to discover the unique beauty ofthis morning when the dialogue sounds right, the characterdoesn't deceive you, the sentence works like a new lockto your door, the full stop falls where it's supposed to. Without this morning of clarity and health,there's no point looking for the darkness of a love. Without this rash happiness that cancels for a moment alltortured uncertainties, in vain is the wonder of lucidity,the redemption through that balance between a pearl and adesperation that you look for, always too keen. It is not in there,but in the recklessness of a morning when allthe words sit straight on the page that lucidity quivers – like a deer – the ultimate lucidity, the kind that reveals the pathos of each exactitude.And on such a morning, you let me know that – because of too much missing – you can't read me anymore.
by Radu Cosaşu
