Celebrate the chlorophyll

I am made more of silence than flash­es. I have told so lit­tle about win­ter, not at all about the spring that is com­ing to an end. My days were no less noisy, enrich­ing, anx­ious, cloudy and blessed. The ordi­nary life of a man who feels the fatigue of near-fin­ished duties.

I am not the same man as I was thir­ty years ago, not the same water, very lit­tle the same riverbed. My body will have absorbed, fused and then reject­ed bil­lions of atoms. My thoughts will have loved, swal­lowed, for­got­ten whole fil­lets of winged, car­niv­o­rous fish. I will always be that tree that patient­ly steals the light to live bet­ter and take drugs.

A man’s sto­ry is more like an inter­ro­ga­tion than a Bible, more like dust than a prophet’s illu­mi­na­tion. And I want to push the elec­tron ink even fur­ther, the appalled and bliss­ful silence in front of existence.

Sum­mer is com­ing, the sun is final­ly on our heads, the beau­ty of these spring greens, and despite the floods, the Chechens and the decep­tions, isn’t it bet­ter to live your hap­pi­ness than to strug­gle under the mis­un­der­stand­ing ? Mas­sacres and deliv­er­ances are part of this uni­verse. I will nev­er know what pur­pose I intend to devote myself to open­ing my voice in this way. I am like the oth­ers the prod­uct of the sea­sons. It is with calm, sad­ness and respect that I sub­mit to the cycle.

Thus the poets remain silent to bet­ter cel­e­brate the chloro­phyll of the intox­i­cat­ing dimen­sions of the great Time and Space.