Before sleep

Modifié le : 2016/09/18

My speech is autumn, win­ter. Your gaze is spring, your touch is sum­mer. There is more to give by the eye than writ­ing can offer. The peo­ple around me all the time, with the pos­tures of angels, big vir­gins Mary, qui­et Sebastians.

I have the impres­sion that his­to­ry is repeat­ed every time the sub­way doors open. We know so lit­tle about our actions, we hard­ly real­ize that we are both light and horror.

I have so many impres­sions to look at that I become almost cas­trat­ed with ven­er­a­tion, sub­merged, anni­hi­lat­ed, with­out strength, mor­tal­ly small.

Life nev­er ceas­es to dis­play its youth, its per­sis­tent youth, hard­ly dif­fer­ent from what I was, what you will have been. The past does not tire of renew­ing itself, the future does not tire of repeat­ing itself. We drink our time, water tra­vers­es our pores, we are opaque only to bet­ter dis­in­te­grate. We are trans­par­ent, evanes­cent, for no reason.

Every time a body approach­es mine, every time the dream is hop­ing for a future, every time it is hop­ing for a fla­vor. Every time my lips want to open, every time they hold back the hands of my expe­ri­ence, the Cas­san­dras of my mem­o­ries resound valiant­ly in chorus.

This text is lost, its sen­tences build intel­lec­tu­al the­olo­gies. It is my way of drap­ing myself in beau­ty, of hid­ing this aging body, this avid­ly naive heart.

I have so much to sing about that the walls of my inabil­i­ty to say every­thing are thick­en­ing. My life is becom­ing autistic.

This is how I often approach the night.