I have always felt drawn by the inexplicable.
I feel at ease in it.

A friend of mine inquired me about a scene in movie we just watched. The film was Pina, the director is Wim Wenders (this last detail is absolutely irrelevant to what I'm about to tell - but I'm very fond of names, the name of Wim Wenders is one of great importance to me in my aesthetic education) and scene in question belongs to the spctacle Café Muller. In it, three women walk with their eyes closed through what seems to be an empty restaurant. A man wearing a very sad look - the saddest look in fact I have ever seen in a man or a woman of that age - hurridely moves chairs away from the route of one the women, so as to remove all obstacles to her wondering. My friend was puzzled by the scene, and knowing that I had in the past studied contemporary dance, he asked me: 'what does it mean?'

What does it mean?
I must confess I have no idea.

But the image stucks. The women, walking in an empty restaurant like ghosts, like hopeless sleepwalkers, visions from another world, ethereal - and their desperate man removing carelessly the chairs from in front of them, as if this the least they could ever do, a last prove of their everlasting sad dedication - this image lingers in your brain like a fever.

I don't know what it means. Nor do I care. To me, this is what POETRY is all about.

To me, the POETIC painter that has always existed is Magritte.
Magritte painted mysteries. Each cavans is mystery incarnated.
I never knew what he actually meant by those magnificent nightmares he painted. And few things scare me more than what might lie behind his enigmas. I'll stay with my disquietness.