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No boyfriend, no dog, no cat

Who am I, by the way ? I jok­ing­ly exclaimed while putting the cut­lery in my neigh­bors’ dish­wash­er. And one of them answered me : “No boyfriend, no dog, no cat.”

At the time, I sighed and kept qui­et, almost with pride. I thought of my friends, of course, mar­ried since 2006, grow­ing old with their three cats, form­ing a cou­ple as we often see it, name­ly a con­tract, a way of cama­raderie and com­pan­ion­ship. I live a lit­tle bit with them every night. The house belongs to us. I live upstairs, and they live on the ground floor. We have a sched­ule, a rou­tine, I pre­pare din­ner on Thurs­day and piz­za on Sat­ur­day. They do the rest. Of course, we share the costs.

From the out­side, it looks a lit­tle like a tru­ple with­out being one, even if one of them comes to my house for break­fast every morn­ing, because he wants to let the oth­er sleep.

So I’m not alone, and I have no com­pan­ion, no dog, no cat. Of the last two, I don’t want any more. I’ve giv­en enough to the ani­mal race. Of the first, I don’t know. I don’t know any­more. I con­fess to watch­ing the horde of passers-by every day. I con­fess to ques­tion­ing myself about one look, anoth­er, eyes that nev­er point in my direc­tion. I admit to drink­ing from the beau­ty of men. I don’t know if I could ever live with any­one again. I will be told that it is not worth wor­ry­ing about, that you cross the riv­er of love when you get there and that you usu­al­ly have the will and the means to build a bridge to pass it.

I would like to believe it, but time is pass­ing, and I have the hon­esty to say that I may be too old, that I no longer want to take a love engi­neer­ing course. My exis­tence is already, in itself, a walk, a path that I have bare­ly explored. I am indeed not alone, and that is what mat­ters since I keep the free­dom to be what I could be, under­stand the koan that can.

Who am I to know ? Me. With this tide of oth­er beings. So I am only a drop in this Kafkaesque ocean of human­i­ty. But if I am a drop, I am also the ocean, and I know full well that ephemer­al glances arise on me, even in search of har­mo­ny, a tem­po­rary res­o­nance or nour­ished by long breath. That’s the qual­i­ty of it all : ephemer­al. To the accu­sa­tion of this poet who asked us if we were not tired of dying, we bas­tards, I would answer that we must die a lit­tle bit all the time to give way to the adven­ture of the present moment. But we still have to assume.

No boyfriend, no dog, no cat. These are only three dimen­sions of bil­lions of oth­er pos­si­bil­i­ties. I’ll see when I have to cross a riv­er, what­ev­er it is.

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