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The Port
I spoke again to Don Chihuahua. A gathering of friends brought us together, in the moonlight and flickering illumination of an oil-drum fire, in which the scraps of shattered pallets glowed. The Don bore his soul like a cloak, as though to reveal everything were the greatest protection against the elements.
"When you find yourself in the world and see finally things as they are; when you realise that the world is an ocean of searching and that you are tossed as though you were no more than a fleck of spray; when the comforts of familiarity and safety fall from you like a spent cocoon, and the stays of civilisation are nothing but illusory shackles; when you feel the exhilarating freedom of knowledge - the knowledge that you are truly alone, and that all men are unknowable, and that the only sure thing is that sooner or later you will dashed in the waves and be gone utterly - "
He was smiling as he said these words, but the smile seemed to me complicated and not directed at alleviating the tense silence that had fallen around his voice.
"To what do you cling? To a god? To your fellow man in the hope that fellowship is enough? To gratitude that you have lived at all? To love?"
I think we all wanted to know what his answer would be. But clearly he did not intend to say any more.
For my part, I find his words push me to a precipice. I am unsure whether I envy the depth of his soul - since I am no deep thinker - or whether I am grateful that I have no insights into such matters, and am willing to seek out any port in a storm.
The Port - mp3
