Happiness destroyed

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

Hot against cold, spring tends to kill soft­ly win­ter, morn­ing fog accli­mates our eyes as soon as they come out of the dark tun­nels of the night. Tomor­row, I’m going to a funer­al. One of my moth­er’s broth­ers died after the inevitable fight against cancer.

Death resem­bles this mist on the spread­ing sur­face of our con­sciences. To grow old is to learn to see the shad­ow of our sil­hou­ette patient­ly approach­ing us while its refrain, ini­tial­ly inaudi­ble, bewitch­es us more and more until we have only eyes and ears for the ques­tions it impos­es on us or for the incon­gruities it sug­gests to us.

When you die young, in the bat­tle­field or in the prime of your life, in the live­ly arms of your lovers, you have lit­tle time or spir­it to sur­ren­der yourself.

Abdi­ca­tion is the begin­ning of sal­va­tion. Reli­gions have cod­i­fied all the stages. And even if,out of our heads, we had dri­ven the venge­ful idols, the Trini­tar­i­an sym­bols, the grapes, the promise of greedy vir­gins, even if we had gal­va­nized our thoughts, these efforts are, at the last moment, in vain, since we must give the soul back to this or that, the unspeak­able thing from which we have dis­tract­ed our­selves for a while at guess­ing its exis­tence. Then you bend one knee, then a sec­ond, you make silence, you stick your fore­head against the ground, and you go back to where you were, in a cloud of dust as soft as fog, as silent as happiness.

Not lib­er­at­ed at last, only destroyed as it should be.