All the sailors | Guy Verville
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All the sailors

I have spent a lot of time in my bed, it seems to me, in the last year or two. I let Neptune teach me the lessons of invisibility, or rather the art of listening to the great Nothing/All—we may never know how to name our ignorance—. Then I patiently listened to Saturn reminding me that I was at this stage of life or what is being created is a memory of what has already been created. It’s Jupiter’s turn, who wants me to fill my sails.

This bed was also the only comfortable place since my living room was a long-abandoned construction site. Now that the dust of the great stars is fading, I gladly leave the sheets, let myself dream, standing up, inventing stories that I keep to myself.

Sometimes I would like this bed to be the home of a daily encounter, even if I lie to say that these sheets only know me. I live in the days of a deep friendship and this bed remains the headquarters of our encounters, our laughter, and our sweat.

It’s a complex friendship that could be the subject of a novel. I haven’t found the approach angle yet, as if wanting to put it down on paper would be like pulling it out of these sheets. I have reached, how to say, balance. I find it beneficial, it looks like me and worries me.

God, the great Wisdom are oxymorons that freeze me.

It is a profound uneasiness/pleasure to be on this rope, probably the greatest lesson I need to learn before I forget it forever. This bed represents my soul and although I am recovering some comfortable furniture these days that will make me leave it, I know that wherever I go, this feeling will not leave me. This bed is, therefore, in the end, only a representation. All my encounters, all my friendships are meant to be this dialogue textured with protective sheets.

There are many ways to be naked with each other. There is pure thought, looks, gestures, filiations. There is also the blind enjoyment that makes so many bodies love, which makes so many hopes and princes dream. There are these intriguing characters who call you, almost sirens, from their virtual shores, promises, and fantasies. Whoever lives will surely see. Whoever dies will not care.

I am confident that before the final day, I will have known the sailors I was supposed to meet, that they will share my soul and my sheets, in all intensity, love, and friendship. If this one is a failure at all, what’s the point of complaining about it, I’ll already be dreaming in singular sheets.

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