No one knows the secret that so often steals my sleep and turns tangible apples into an irreversible nightmare puree. It is necessary to shake the trees and shake off the excess fruit on the branches, leaving only the essentials.
For a long time I tried to shake the branches of that imaginary tree that overshadowed my clear days. It took me a while to understand that the tree was me and that no matter how violently I shook my arms of firewood, the fruits would continue to grow like weights hanging from my legs.
I realized that only time and the change of season could lighten the weight of certain loads, and that some bales, after falling to the ground, would still continue to leave traces like resin cracks. I live with a secret that wakes me up at night and that infiltrates under the roots, an underground serpent that hisses unforgettable representations of the same terrible memory, which will only die when this tree body catches fire or is cut down with an axe.
My secret has the power of a plague in the forest and makes me sick every day between breakfast and atavistic brushing my teeth in front of the mirror. I am chosen by fungi, viruses and bacteria; I am the perfect depositary of all biotic agents; I am the perfect host of this secret and other secrets past and to come, which I will keep within myself.
I live on a secret so sordid that it leads me to this poor metaphor of the tree. If only I could tell you what troubles me in the present. If I could have, instead of roots, legs to walk towards a clear day. But I was never given the possibility of being anything other than a tree whose roots were buried in silence.
Around here the birds never landed melodies nor were other trees planted to keep me company in the sway of the wind. My secret is a landscape of new tar that will last in time. And I live in it and from it because it floods all my hours and my peace like a cuckoo clock. I am not about to die early, I will resist the corrode of what frightens me. And this secret doesn’t scare me anymore, it just grinds a little like a toothache that’s gone but we haven’t forgotten.
“I live by what others don’t know about me,” wrote Peter Handke. I live off what I know about someone, like a curse, and that no one will ever know.