Words never say what I'm really saying.

Maybe an object is what serves as a link
between subjects
allowing us to live in a society,
to be together
but since social relations are always ambiguous,
since my thoughts divide as much as unite,
and my words unite by what they express,
and isolate by what they omit,
since a wide gulf separates my subjective certainty of myself
from the objective truth others have of me,
since I constantly end up guilty,
even though I feel innocent,
since every event changes my daily life,
since I always fail to communicate,
to understand,
to love and be loved.
and every failure deepens my solitude,
since I cannot escape the objectivity crushing me,
nor the subjectivity expelling me
since I cannot rise to a state of being,
nor collapse into nothingness,

I have to listen more than ever,
I have to look around me,
at the world,
My fellow creature, my brother.

The world alone.
Today when revolutions are impossibe,
and bloody wars loom,
when capitalism is unsure of its rights
and the working class is in retreat,
when the lightning process of science makes future centuries hauntingly present,
when the future is more present than the present,
when distant galaxies are on my doorstep,
My fellow creature, my brother.

Where do we start?
But start what?
God created heaven and earth, sure.
but that's too easy.
We should put it better.
Say that the limits of language are the world's limits,
that the limits of my language are my world's limits,
and that when I speak, I limit the world, I finish it.