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In my bubbles

Modifié le : 2019/08/01

Last night, the body still in the water, cre­at­ing neb­u­lae with soap bub­bles. I did­n’t see the storm pass by that I could­n’t get through the walls. The house this morn­ing is silent like a church in which no one prays anymore.

There was Yves, my down­stairs neigh­bor, who came to have break­fast with me. Its vital­i­ty is con­ta­gious. He’s a man who can’t hold his place, a beau­ti­ful liv­ing ember. His dai­ly pres­ence is of great rich­ness to me. As usu­al, since he can’t keep his posi­tion, he went shop­ping and then did his sport. For my part, I am get­ting ready to work, to take over the tasks that have been loose­ly left out for a few days. For a self-employed work­er, cal­en­dars are more liq­uid. Hol­i­days only exist occa­sion­al­ly. I some­times want to work sched­ules insti­tut­ed by oth­ers, to put on the employ­ee’s gloves again. Liv­ing as I do car­ries its dan­gers, but in the end, aren’t times pre­car­i­ous for everyone ?

Around me, I know the plan­et is chang­ing with great agi­ta­tion as if we were all upset by the full moon. Sci­en­tists keep telling us that we live on a pow­der keg, polit­i­cal sci­en­tists and jour­nal­ists no longer have enough ink to describe this bub­bling and con­tra­dic­to­ry world, peo­ple are scream­ing famine, economies are run­ning out of oil, yet peo­ple in the north seem to want to con­tin­ue the cel­e­bra­tion while those in the south invite them­selves into lounges that are already too crowd­ed. As one artist said in Le Devoir, this morn­ing, in 2012, there were many revolts, but no rev­o­lu­tion. Every­thing is going bad­ly, and if this speech is obso­lete, it is still valid.

And I’m in my bub­bles. After read­ing a lit­tle, last night, I sat up straight in the bath, not in the sense of length, but in the spir­it of width, crossed my legs like an Indi­an, closed my eyes, put my arms on my knees, breathed, length­ened the spine, inhaled slow­ly through my nose. The chest swelled. I left a few notes of a melody I learned dur­ing my singing les­son. Sim­ple, hap­py, and above with­in a priv­i­leged peace.

It is said that hap­pi­ness must be lived in this way, by appre­ci­at­ing every moment, by thank­ing life for being what it is. By enjoy­ing the hon­ey of this frag­ile exis­tence. You can be in pain, you can be alone, you can be hun­gry. We may be dying, com­ing. We may not know what the next hour will be made of. What’s the point of want­i­ng to know ? If we do not under­stand what the mate­r­i­al of our road is made of, how can we hope to use it ?

Prince­ly med­i­ta­tion. I can hear the snow­plows out­side split­ting the streets.

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