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Not seeing the season

Modifié le : 2019/08/05

It’s not that I don’t have enough words. The word remains vol­u­ble in my thoughts. How­ev­er, it is else­where than on the Inter­net, in the mesh of my nov­el. Writ­ing bewitch­es me, almost for­bids my oth­er visions as if my mind was ignit­ed by a sin­gle doctrine.

We, the liv­ing, pass through the streets of days, our sched­ules, our mis­sions, our duties and per­mis­sions, our inter­twined uni­vers­es, drown our hours, which seem to accel­er­ate to the point that we lose the details on the hori­zon. It is sure­ly wise to spare your efforts, because exhaus­tion, like a wolf, awaits only that.

We must, there­fore, some­times remain silent, sprin­kle with silence the soil of our speech­es. Patience is all the nobler when you don’t know where the sea­sons are going. The train may be going too fast, but if we close our eyes, we sud­den­ly see anoth­er land­scape. And every­thing seems to be more pre­cise and clear again.

We always fin­ish enter­ing the station.

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