The Tensions of the Centaur
Human beings are at the mercy of the geography. The cultures in which we learn our identities, create their memories and with them claim our sense of belonging to a misunderstanding, a series of intimate accidents.
In the structure of our existence, logged carefully in the sacred book of life, we share a similar biological patrimony, the one which identifies us as members of the same species in the animal kingdom, but long ago we forgot the precise moment at which we arose out of the torrent of living matter. We have forgotten our beginnings, the point at which we discovered a universe without names and started to walk together, seeking to recognize ourselves, to populate the world.
Now we are disconnected beings who shows the evidence of a fractured human substance, a body divided, "purified" by the successive actions of history. We are from the East or West, white or black, primitive or contemporary, as though we existed just to justify a convention and only in the rhythms of our individual contradictions we dare to Be, in simplicity, divested of our categories, leaving behind all these acquired notions.
The simplicity of this existence is not created by the absence of any ideal but the reverse. It’s not that we don't fit into the most diverse categories; on the contrary, we personify all of them. We are from the East and the West at the same time. We are white and black, primitive and contemporary; each of us wears the skins and implications of all the ways humankind expresses itself, the vestiges of remote lives whose meanings we share, inscribed in each multiplied cell.
The tensions of this chimera are not to be found in the appearances of its forked anatomy, they lie in our incapacity to recognize ourselves, in our ignorance of our intertwined condition, blood that bathes extreme contrasts like the shared surf of interior seas: sea-bridge, sea-hinge between two completed geographies.
We are a Centaur who still feels the pain of his own oppositeness. The Centaur’s stresses don't burst, like escaping, in the shared abomination between man and beast; rather, they conspire to complete the miracle of reinvigorating his impurity, the very font that gave him life.
The being we are, anywhere, walks for a while within fixed limits, moved by the fire of his oppositions toward his unavoidable destination and he will arrive at his future of both man and horse, readying his legs for flight and for the greatest flight, he will ready his heart.