Eels under rocks

Hun­gry for hid­den mean­ings, my eyes observe coin­ci­dences. A young man in a turquoise T‑shirt sit­ting on the same tone of voice, you can’t make that up. There must be a cos­mic reason.

What was I think­ing at that moment ? Noth­ing very tan­gi­ble except the cer­tain­ty that order comes out of chaos when you least expect it.

And we spec­u­late that God was born this way in the minds of our pri­mate ances­tors. The sound of thun­der in front of a swarm of angry insects chok­ing the air. Anguish aris­ing from a feel­ing of déjà vu that would have been noth­ing more than a hasty con­struc­tion of dis­parate and incom­pre­hen­si­ble elements.

We are con­stant­ly look­ing for order, the piece of string that con­nects heav­en and earth and some­times hell. How many of our thoughts can only come from this fright­ened reflex of want­i­ng to under­stand every­thing ? How many prej­u­dices built on these ani­mal shad­ows gov­ern as much our moods, our hor­mones as our atavisms ?

These vir­tu­al things appear to be real things, real events. The boy with the fit­ting T‑shirt does indeed appear like a BIXI ad… Nep­tune is indeed the oppo­site of Kevin Spacey’s native Venus at the time of the scandal…

What would be the exis­tence if there were not all these eels under the rocks ? How could we sur­vive if we could only search and nev­er find ? I don’t care if we hal­lu­ci­nate bananas, the Blessed Vir­gin at Fati­ma or Mohammed in the desert, as long as they remain republics of hypothe­ses, as long as we don’t use them to play at war.

It’s easy to believe and sim­pli­fy and adven­tur­ous to nav­i­gate the ocean of ques­tion­ing… If only these were just mind games that would not be used to cut through human flesh. If at least our dreams had the wis­dom to remain poems.