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Luminous clock

Modifié le : 2019/07/14

The sun casts its light dai­ly on me, on us and on you. My gaze inevitably turns on me, on us, on you. The exis­tence is incred­i­ble, the real­i­ty so preg­nant, beau­ti­ful, implaca­ble, heavy, uncompromising.

I don’t under­stand all this vio­lence around and with­in me, as if we could­n’t bear the burn­ing real­i­ty that burns our eyes, of course. Do peo­ple real­ly pre­fer this hyp­not­ic trance of every­day life ? Push a pen­cil, clean up, and then die ?

Ah, of course, we can make love, chil­dren, we can sing, cre­ate, improve the fate of the world, we can live our lives prop­er­ly, like any self-respect­ing mor­tal. How­ev­er, this does not seem to be the norm. Why do so many peo­ple fail ? Why so much cry­ing and stress ? Why the dic­ta­to­r­i­al hugs of the boss­es, the pimp­ing smiles of the politicians ?

Beau­ti­ful inten­tions seem to hide the uncom­pro­mis­ing desire for the sur­vival of the best, from the virus to the bac­te­ria, from the bac­te­ria to the mul­ti­ple man­i­fes­ta­tions of life, from species to plan­ets, from suns to galax­ies, then from con­stel­la­tions to mul­ti­di­men­sion­al bub­bles, the race does not stop. Our choic­es, our vic­to­ries, and our lit­tle mon­key deeds do not move the stars. What do this move­ment and the gears of this labyrinthine clock represent ?

We fix all this by believ­ing in one or more gods, hope or philoso­phies ? It’s a bit like this clean­ing that does­n’t hap­pen in my house, this exis­tence that goes a lit­tle, a lot, poet­i­cal­ly adrift. It’s all right, madame la Mar­quise. Let’s sweep up the broom, hide death under the carpet

The sun is so good on my face.

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