I.
And so, suddenly, the countless utterances of those words, "perhaps in another world", coalesce into the recognition of the possibility that, perhaps, it is I who am not meant for this one.
Except face to face with the dread and despair contained in that possibility, one is truly left with little choice. Or, rather, the choice which one is faced appears less a choice and more reminiscent of Rilke's poetic ultimatum: Du mußt dein Leben ändern - You must change your life.
Now, poised on the edge, and glancing into the abyss, you see yourself, fleeting.
II.
Qué lejos estoy del suelo donde he nacido
Inmensa nostalgia invade mi pensamiento,
y, al verme, tan solo y triste cual hoja al viento,
quisiera llorar, quisiera morir, de sentimiento
Alavez speaks to the human condition, not merely that of someone moved from home, but in truth of a diseased humanity. Removed from the ground from where I stem, I ask here who I am - self-consciousness an abomination of nature, the flux and constancy of change embodying that parasitic other which continuously invades my thoughts, forcing again and again the confrontation with the sight of myself, a fleeting leaf on the wind.
I would that I'd weep, I would that I'd die, out of sorrow.
Except, as lone and dismal leaf, these become but wishes. A leaf on the wind is a leaf already dead - a leaf without life, a leaf without home, a leaf whose future is but that of rot and decay. I am no more for this world, even if I was born out of it. My corpse may yet serve those to come, but even this truth serves as little remedy for that self-conscious reflexivity which is bound to do nothing but fate its own despairing future into being. Little may I say, little may I do - a leaf on the wind, fallen from home and caught by the currents of time.
I would that I'd weep, I would that I'd die, out of sorrow.
But the possibility of doing so seems to have already long passed.
There is neither a life left to change nor lose. Perhaps in another world.