I therefore return from Morocco with a sense of radical insufficiency, of deprivation, of inadequacy. I have not been in Morocco, I have been in photographs of Morocco. A truly virtual Morocco.
I have been in Morocco without the experience of Morocco, which remained distant from me like a threat. Threat in the sense that not the experience for me, but myself a threat to the experience. As if I had not been worthy of its possession, as if the experience had snubbed me, not finding in me a passage worthy of expression.
And so I return from Morocco hanging in the void. I stagger in the void, suspended in an abyss of inconsistency. I cannot see the bottom of that abyss. I am an orphan of an experience. I am an orphan of myself. I went with the intention of losing myself, of losing myself once again, of forgetting who I am, of letting go of that sack called Gabriele, and instead that sack is always with me. I did not return from Morocco an orphan of myself, I returned an orphan of my absence. The essence of me is my absence.
In a feverish state, still with suitcases to unpack, with the scents of the essences of Marrakech on me, I go to a search engine and type the prompt 'nepal', data and photographs pop up in quantity: Reinhold Messner, climbers on Everest, institutional sites, the story of Walter Bonatti and K2, stupas lost in the valleys with strong flags, vertiginous snow-capped peaks, exotic names. Except for fame, all this is unknown to me, the clue to the skein is hidden in that myriad of details and ideas, arduous research but one thing I already know: I will leave alone. Among the photos and videos I find, the excursions to Everest Base Camp, five thousand three hundred meters, Indian lines of hikers like at the shops of a shopping mall, people jostling sitting at the outdoor tables of the villages at high altitude to take a selfie, to chat, spreading their arms on white peaks, loud shouts like at the national team match, a chattering manner of useless chatter about beauty. All this offends me, disgusts me, repugnants me, disappoints me, does not interest me. Too dispersive. The risk is the dispersion of my absence, diminishing my absence. An experience at Everest Base Camp would entail the risk of disapproval, of deprivation, the disappointment of an experience, the consequence of a non-possession, a non-song, a non-disenchantment, a song completely out of tune, an intolerable disharmony of noises, the abysmal din of my presence. A horror.
But I need a point on which to leverage, on which to rest the world, on which to give substance to my absence.
I have to find someone who will lead me to where I can finally not-be. And this someone must be indigenous. No Italians, no groups, no exchanges of words like where are you from, oh for me it's the third time, oh, I've been to the top of Manaslu, and me then? That of Everest, I met Messner, a great one, people died up there, but you know, oxygen, I'm a vegetarian, at night there can be imbalances, no, for me it's the first time and blah and blah and blah.
No bullshit.