Modifié le : 2019/07/17

Fugi­tive, frag­ile, brit­tle, sur­pris­ing words all begin­ning and end­ing with the same let­ter (in French : fugi­tive, frag­ile, fri­able). Brit­tle (fri­able) is the one I remem­ber. Our lives of cliffs, canyons or dunes, do not escape the insa­tiable fric­tion of becom­ing. So what can we say about our ephemer­al glo­ries ? It is by sit­ting against the wall of one’s con­science, crossed legs, arms on one’s knees, dead­head on one’s neck, eyes devoid of gaze, it is by breath­ing the neu­tral air of the one who knows what sur­rounds us that one can taste this hard grain, small, detached from the rest, these cer­tain­ties that has­ten to cement them­selves to each oth­er as if they already felt the fate that was reserved for them. By breath­ing like this, you can roll this lit­tle piece of rock on your tongue and it imme­di­ate­ly plunges into your throat. A lit­tle bit, the pass­ing of time, the beau­ty of the pas­sage, what I man­age to grasp for a frac­tion of a sec­ond and which, as if I would die eter­nal­ly, is already tir­ing in the void, dissolves.

I thus obtain the nec­es­sary peace, but there is a strug­gle, desire, anx­i­ety. What is open to the sens­es and thoughts has the charm of lux­u­ry, the intox­i­ca­tion of promis­es. I accept right away, I don’t put any brake on what could feed me.

But I don’t want to for­get that word. Brit­tle, let say it in French with a British accent, Fri­able. I can hear the com­pact snow of the glac­i­er creak­ing and shiv­er­ing. I hear with­out under­stand­ing. Igno­rance is so pure, so smil­ing, so com­fort­ably placed in the arms of wisdom.