The Tropics
A parrot screeches. Ventilators turn. An iguana walks vertically up a palm trunk, a shining ocean wave puts foam on a beach. When I was young, I was driven to despair during vacations by the boredom of obvious things. In my old age, finding myself in the tropics, I already knew that I had always searched for medicine against this horror, which lasts because it means nothing. To give a meaning, any, only to get out of this bovine, perfectly indifferent, inert reality, without aims, strivings, affirmation, negation, like an incarnated nothingness. Religions! Ideologies! Desires! Hatreds! Come to cover with your multi-colored fabric this blind thing, deprived even of a name.
Czeslaw Milosz – Roadside Dog
