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Conquering the wall

With­in us is a world as vast as the uni­verse. Iron­i­cal­ly, despite the pow­ers of the mind, we seem to tra­verse it only on foot. In dreams, we can only tran­scend the regions that inhab­it us, pop­u­lat­ed by mon­sters and pos­si­bil­i­ties. Dur­ing these short escapades, lovers’ skin tastes of hon­ey, and anx­i­eties dri­ve us to adventure.

In every­day life, the step is a lit­tle frail­er. The desire is fru­gal. Good inten­tions muf­fle the jour­ney. We are not blind, but blink­ers nonethe­less guide our course. We want to be hors­es, with our four hooves bit­ing the ground at high speed.

In this world, in this us that escapes us, bor­ders would not exist. It is enough to open up to dreams, to lis­ten to them as they bub­ble to the sur­face of con­scious­ness, to see all those wrecks strand­ed dur­ing child­hood on the often licked sur­face of our desires. All we have to do is bend down and pick up these shells that will send back to us the echoes of what we are when worn in our ears.

In this world inac­ces­si­ble to the day, I have vis­it­ed the bod­ies of birds, vipers, men, and women. I have tast­ed the lips of life, tried to melt into it with orgasms. I have sung like an amoe­ba among the abysses, and I believe that I sing there ; I will always sing there if I man­age to bypass the walls that pre­vent me from see­ing the hori­zon, the worlds, the mystery.

Grow­ing old does not con­sist in aban­don­ing the spir­it of one’s youth, but in sur­round­ing one’s thoughts with fences that one wants to be sol­id, well stocked with plants and fruits. It is a strange desire since nour­ish­ment seems more abun­dant on the oth­er side of the fence, where the roots can drink from what we do not know.

To live one’s life well would con­sist in for­bid­ding one­self noth­ing of the fer­tile, in plung­ing one’s sex into the uter­ine heat of one’s soul, in being also this wel­com­ing pla­cen­ta, this cav­ern of all moments.

We must, there­fore, no longer regret any­thing, no longer rely on the shad­ows of our fail­ures. We must always get up, walk bare­foot beyond our past. The grass is always more beau­ti­ful on the oth­er side of the his­to­ry, fresh and whole­some. When the moment remains present on the drum­head vibrat­ing under our fin­gers, the lungs laugh, the sound is clear as childhood.

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