"Tabula rasa" tells me about a great fear of not being who you think you are. It speaks of appearances, of contrasts. There is a certainty that is frightening and that is that life is blurring and there is not something or someone who impregnates himself with valid experiences when he misses them and is not satisfied. There is the presumption that the passage through this life has been little less than effective because it remains a book without writing waiting for the printing press, a river waiting for the arrival of real seas.
What is dominant are the true experiences, those that mark, those that leave traces of the passage through the world, more mundane experience: Touch, caress.