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A doormat and my dreams

My looks, my many blows in the light, offer me no answer. I thirst for trans­mu­ta­tions, inde­fin­able expe­ri­ences. I seem to pos­sess as much imag­i­na­tion as dur­ing my youth­ful flights of fan­cy. Still, this Sat­urn­ian time in my six­ties quick­ly dis­solves its inter­est, even its course.

I am there observ­ing things, silent­ly soak­ing in them like a jel­ly­fish atten­tive to the food that clings to its strung arms. Am I dis­ap­pear­ing, melt­ing into a black hole of wis­dom or silence ? Is knowl­edge a word or a secret with­out words ?

When I am among peo­ple, when I am deal­ing with this or that one, anguish becomes sug­ar-coat­ed with alco­hol. When I slide my hand over the fur of a cat, I hear with my fin­gers the hum of life. When I return home, focus­ing at a Twit­ter account over fast fire­flies images, I feel the dry­ness of old wounds, the youth now being just a pul­sion belong­ing to oth­er smartphones.

Life, full and whole, is with­in me and is with­out me. I can live for hours observ­ing the star­ry con­fig­u­ra­tions of my sick com­rades or of the star­ry politi­cians. The course of time is slow when you stick your tongue in it. Noth­ing hap­pens, noth­ing is cre­at­ed, every­thing is frozen, met­al, and flesh in a des­tiny that allows as many vari­a­tions as there are uncertainties.

I am always able to express the beau­ty of the world. Still, I won­der what the point of doing so. Life is a sweet can­dy that dam­ages one’s teeth. It is the ran­som of hap­pi­ness or comfort.

Pho­tograph­ing the door­mat on my door and turn­ing it into a methane sun. Sure­ly some­where, in a region too far away from the uni­verse for me to imag­ine, such a star is blow­ing up, with mag­net­ic storms as imag­i­na­tive as my wildest dreams.

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