Autumn projects its contrasts. The day was warm, soft for the onlookers who, despite the virus, opened their mouths wide to the sun. As I had to pick up my prescriptions at the pharmacy, I decided to walk there and then do some early errands. I don’t go out much, so I took the opportunity to break in my new boots. I’m used to listening to the urban environment as it is. This time I opted for my headphones and ethereal melodies. As for my eyes, blinded by the sounds, they only regained consciousness when crossing the streets, judging the dangerousness of passers-by, and, like a cat, they sometimes fixed themselves on contrasts of colors.
The season is fertile. Deliquescence joins the sad philosophy of what circulates in my veins. Every day, I repeat it only too often, or maybe not enough, in the end, every day, so I let the world pierce the opaque curtain of my soul. This is a strange phenomenology to keep one’s thoughts silent to allow the beautiful cacophony of forms.
Eight kilometers later, I was back home, my feet a little sore all the same. Fortunately, the new boots didn’t make me suffer. I took a shower, lay down on the bed to relax, and fell into an early vacation sleep. I dreamed for two and a half hours. I don’t understand the cramps I often get in my legs and feet since they are muscular, although newly veined with age-related meanderings. My body is ossifying. I also feel contrasts in me.
If I were a monk in Tibet, would I have all these sensations? If I fainted within the hour, what would happen to the long luggage I had gathered? Who could offer me his answers while keeping them to himself? Do we communicate? Are we alone, or are we so absurdly merged that we don’t realize it?
Why is it so beautiful and inaccessible, good and evil? My brain, like an old circuit, is saturated. During the night, the rain of dreams will wash it away so that I can walk there again. This is the act of living.