I decided to write down what I see to try to understand who is the one I now call "Her," as well as what she does. It seems to me that if I could find the words, I would understand better and even see better all that it offers to my contemplation. I became aware of this yesterday as I stood in front of the white wall where, once again, she had placed unknown things that gave rise to gentle and deep emotions in me. I've been alone for so long now that I ended up talking to myself out loud. I keep myself company. It has become such a habit that I have forgotten how strange it seems. Anyone who saw me would probably think I was crazy. However, if she hears me and sees me, what does she think?
Yesterday, I was talking to myself without really paying attention to what I was saying when I realized what I was doing. I remember my words, which I heard as if they came out of a mouth other than mine: "It looks like rain...". All it took was this: this word - rain - that I haven't said or thought about since I've been on this island where it doesn't rain, to find myself, as a child, in my grandparents' house, with my eyes glued to the window, watching the rain slide over the window. I was moved to tears! Here, it also looked like tears on a woman's cheek in makeup, those dark features that all flowed in the same direction. There you have it, two words - rain, tears - and I start to see what, a moment ago, was just a simple set of more or less straight lines, not parallel, widening slightly downwards. I could have said another word: "Hair," for example, and the wet window of my childhood would have become a hair offered to my dreams, and to my desire to bury my face and hands in it. Fortunately, underneath this spray of bright lines, there was a black cube, like an impassive monolith — something unspeakable, something that no word could have offered to my desire for appropriation. I have to be careful. Taking things too much for beings, I'm going to go crazy.