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Dust and trash

Haven’t we already been told that we are dust and that we will return, with our last breath, to the sandy ocean of lit­tle things ? I had always found it dif­fi­cult to clean every­thing, erase the traces. Now I notice all the mat­ter left behind : the onion peels des­tined for com­post, the cof­fee beans that escape from the mill, the dough stuck on the bowl that will not become bread. The mat­ter does not seem more aware of its future than that. It is, of course, my con­vo­lut­ed brain that notes this sup­posed des­tiny. It imme­di­ate­ly comes to mind the dai­ly deaths of the pan­dem­ic, the mul­ti­ple plea­sures that dis­solve in asyn­chro­nous wombs or inside hand­ker­chiefs or ani­mals of cir­cum­stance. I could also include the unnec­es­sary laugh­ter, the acts launched into the void, the time wast­ed doing noth­ing or doing every­thing wrong. How­ev­er, I should not for­get the wealth of our inven­tions, the obsti­nate strength of our will to live, the arts, the songs, the cries of moth­ers, chil­dren, and poets. Nor should we over­look the legions of species, the insects and bac­te­ria, the tur­bu­lent broth of Cre­ation, this great Unknown to whom we devote unbound­ed respect and disinterest.

Noth­ing is lost, it seems. Noth­ing is cre­at­ed either ?

We are infin­i­tes­i­mal grains, and it is from the accu­mu­la­tion of our exis­tences that the ocean of our man­i­fes­ta­tions swells. The strange atoms that make up the uni­verse are agglu­ti­nat­ed in us, in them, in these things. The mir­a­cle comes from this chaos, which devours itself with healthy and dia­bol­i­cal pleasure.

There is noth­ing we can do about it. It is undoubt­ed­ly the best hope we can pro­vide to con­tin­ue this adven­ture that escapes us.

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