Modifié le : 2019/07/27

I looked up at the scene. The tree seemed to speak to me with­out me under­stand­ing its lan­guage as if I had, after all, only the neu­tral vision of an ani­mal. No dan­ger in sight, only the vir­tu­al pro­tec­tion of a city besieged by a lit­tle snow.

I still liked what I saw and rushed to get my cam­era out. Click. Just that, click. I came in and enlist­ed under the sheets to work on my nov­el a lit­tle bit. I fell asleep quick­ly after­ward. This morn­ing, I was hap­py to be alive again, tired, glad to look at the zebra window.

My eyes still don’t see the storm com­ing. Have my ears become schiz­o­phrenic ? How long are these wait­ing hours, have I been used to cry­ing for years ?

I’m not com­plain­ing too much. I don’t know what to say except to con­tin­ue this pious lis­ten­ing to my exis­tence. I let go of my lit­tle joys, like an ante­lope in front of its pond.

Words are beau­ti­ful, they even embell­ish lies.