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I walk

Walk­ing forces you to think, to look at the ground and to let your gaze wan­der over the mate­r­i­al. With a slow pace, which is eas­i­ly over­tak­en by the urgency of oth­ers, I real­ize that sum­mer is already com­ing to an end. I did­n’t say much about it, I left it to the clouds to wash the sky, the gar­dens to soothe the moods and my mind to get entan­gled in the fog.

Walk­ing forces you to remain human and, if you man­age to let your phone vibrate in your case, you final­ly don’t go faster than your shadow.

Time changes so lit­tle when we walk, the step beats the sec­onds, the cen­time­ters, the thought scat­ters its psalmodi­ous wan­der­ings. And the morn­ing becomes beau­ty with its light that already reminds us of death to come.

What I seem to be reborn when autumn comes as if sum­mer were for me noth­ing more than a drought to drown in the mod­esty of the fatal­i­ty of the lan­guid sea­son. Yes, the light changes, I come out of my den, make me the ground­hog who nev­er sees his shadows.

I’m hav­ing a hard time sleep­ing tonight. It rained in a storm today to chase away the heat, to silence the cicadas who, this sum­mer, almost did not sing. Yes­ter­day was the eclipse that did not put the Amer­i­cans’ minds back in order. Today, a ghost­writer is dead. Yes­ter­day, he was a come­di­an. And else­where, oth­er deaths that won’t real­ly make the head­lines. Or so lit­tle, the time for oth­er bewil­dered peo­ple to run into oth­er victims.

There is also all this noise of the Inter­net, which knows nei­ther spring nor win­ter, always in per­pet­u­al chaos, in equinox on absur­di­ty. There are my dreams that always run away as soon as I try to water them with a conscience.

I walk, I keep say­ing I walk. I’m walking.

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