< the skull

THE SECRET COMPANY OF THINGS
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2026-04-25

There are many people who suffer from the affliction of loneliness. It is enough
for silence to gather around them, enough for no human presence to appear before
their eyes, for an immense anguish to take hold of them — as though the weight
of the heavens had collapsed upon their heads, as though, from the horizons,
there rose the announcement of the end of the world.

And yet, is there such a thing on Earth as true solitude? Are we not all
surrounded by countless objects, by infinite forms of Nature? Is not our private
world filled with memories, dreams, reflections, and ideas that prevent any
absolute loneliness from taking root?

Everything is alive, and everything speaks around us, though with a life and a
voice that are not human — but which we may still perceive and hear, for often
this secret language helps illuminate our own mystery. Like that Sultan Mahmud,
who understood the speech of birds, we may turn all our sensitivity toward that
apparent emptiness of solitude; and little by little, we shall feel ourselves
enriched.

Painters and photographers move around objects in search of angles, plays of
light, the eloquence of forms, seeking to reveal what seems to them not only the
most static aspect of those objects, but also the most communicable, the richest
in suggestion, the most capable of conveying what exceeds their physical limits
— something that, in a certain way, constitutes their spirit and their soul.

Let us, too, become seers in this manner: let us look slowly at the color of the
walls, the design of the chairs, the transparency of the windowpanes, the gentle
fabrics woven without great pretension. Let us not seek in them the beauty that
immediately ravishes the eye, the balance of lines, the grace of proportions;
often their appearance — like that of human beings — is awkward and ungainly.

But that is not all we seek. What we are trying to discern is their inner
meaning. Let us love, in these humble things, the burden of experience they
represent, and the resonance, perceptible within them, of so much human labor
across endless centuries. Let us love what we feel of ourselves in these varied
things, since, selfish as we are, we scarcely know how to love anything except
that in which we find ourselves.

Let us love the ancient enchantment of our childhood eyes, when they first began
to discover the world: the veins of wood, with their paths of forests and waves
and horizons; the patterns of tiles; the glaze of porcelain; the quiet,
methodical rooftops. Let us love the murmur of running water, the sounds of
machines, the restless voices of animals we wish we could translate.

Everything around us throbs with life, and it is almost a duty of love to apply
our ears, our eyes, and our hearts to this infinity of natural and artificial
forms that enclose their secrets, their memories, their silent experiences. The
rose taking leave of itself, the mirror upon which our face comes to rest, the
pillowcase across which the dreams of the sleeper are traced — everything,
everything is a world with a past, a present, and a future, through which we
pass either attentively or distractedly.

It is a delicate world, one that does not impose itself by force: it accepts our
frivolity or our reverence; it waits for us to discover it, without announcing
itself or seeking to prevail; it may remain forever unknown, without for that
reason ceasing to exist; it does not turn its presence into an insistent
proclamation: “I am here! I am here!”

Rather, concentrated in its own essence, it reveals itself only when our senses
are prepared to discover it. And in silence, it offers us its manifold
companionship — generous and invisible.

Oh, if you complain of human loneliness, pay attention, around you, to this
magnificent presence, to this abundant language that overflows from everything,
and it will converse with you endlessly.


< the skull