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Artificial paradises

Modifié le : 2019/08/07

The dis­ci­pline of morn­ing walk­ing is grad­u­al­ly becom­ing a neces­si­ty. As I step out­side, I get a desire to spend the day there, to take a path, to go straight ahead with­out turn­ing around, as if my past would irrepara­bly change me into a salt car­ried by the wind.

My walk­ing is faster and, like a bub­ble that rush­es to the sur­face to die, I con­sume dis­tance. It must be said that 1) I am thirsty again, 2) I just need a vaca­tion. And, 3) I need to let myself be car­ried away by mag­i­cal phenomena.

I could get drunk, but I’ve nev­er real­ly tak­en drugs or alco­hol, and my doc­tor warns me to mod­er­ate my already harm­less con­sump­tion of wine. As Baude­laire would have said, we don’t real­ly need drugs to cre­ate (I did­n’t read Les Par­adis arti­fi­ciels, and I had to vis­it Wikipedia. I thought it was a poem. I am of an unculture…).

The cre­ator’s brain already con­tains an envi­able phar­ma­copeia of imag­i­nary flu­ids. A too high alter­ation of his con­scious­ness would undoubt­ed­ly take him for a time to unsus­pect­ed lands and this jour­ney could inspire him for a life­time, but could just as quick­ly push him against the wall of noth­ing­ness. Few can face vac­u­um. I don’t know if I can do it, even if I long for it and even if I often dream about it.

I’ll walk then. I observe the last plants that have resist­ed the cold so far, I see the pigeons that stand qui­et­ly above the boule­vards, I walk, I hur­ry the step, I run after my breath and my inspi­ra­tion. I won­der what I have to write now. Writ­ing this blog may not yet be a neces­si­ty. I may seem Zen, but in me, vol­ca­noes clash. It’s a cliché from my imag­i­na­tion. Silence is also a step. The slope, how­ev­er, on this path is so steep.

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