Multiplying Report 7

The eighth day In the morning behind me the sun was dawning, filtering through a light haze; the backlight produced a feeling of loving comfort for the success of the new day. I think it is for this that I never found myself praying; contact with the supreme self is constant on these occasions, it is the essence of the omnipotent, omnipresent one who is not figure or face, but breathable essence. Little by little my original baggage grew ever lighter; my panniers seemed to make ever more room for the new, eternally old. The walk up to the shepherds' place was quite tiring. Up there at the top I found no comfort but only mistrust and self-interested indifference. The houses all around along the walls were storied with splendid murals, proclaiming history and melancholy.

The young people spent their time running up and down the main street at full speed; they reminded me of those dogs chained up that keep running back and forth within their limits. Wolves, if put in a cage, do the same. An old man dressed from his beard to his feet in that majestic velvet, with a waistcoat into the bargain in that torrid heat, revealed to me through his few words the essence of the topos. The road took me to a place never seen before; the chestnut trees in bloom were unknown to me. At the top I left the road and shouldered my dear companion, and we accompanied each other along a steep, shaded path. There I met the intoxication of wine offered by a cheerful company; when we parted I was staggering, but not so much that I could not meet that sun which was a friend to me all day. I rested my tiredness leaning against a tree that looked over the valley.

From there many shepherds, accompanying their flocks, could see their desire to set out. I was left with the desire to leave a message for the next person who would sit in the place I by then felt was mine. Night came, bringing that long-desired comfort. Dreams followed one another without rest; I felt surrounded by that night, but they could not catch me defenceless — my position up there on the summit let me venture into that clearing that became forest, on whose trunks were hung bulls' heads with symmetrical horns. Above this summit that became below I saw a farmhouse, where a little shepherdess was drawing water into her bucket. I wanted to catch her gaze, but by now it was impossible for me; as in the story of Cinderella, at a certain hour everything would vanish, and what was before would return.