This morning, a thin layer of snow was hurrying to live its last moments. Fall is at war with the next season; people were perhaps rushing a little more than usual to get to the subway station so as not to get caught in the cold (or viruses looking for a nest). I too walked a little faster, because I have work to do.
I am undoubtedly happy/unlucky to be able to work. I have butter to put on my bread while others have neither the strength nor the skills to push a pencil or read instructions. I am thinking of the 49% of the Quebec (and western) population considered illiterate at level 2 (difficulty in reading).
I, who am a bit of a poet, am astonished by this figure, especially since it shows the chasm that can separate my ideas from theirs, because who can read can play with concepts, words, gives himself weapons against voracious people, both political and financial. When we think that even the most educated have difficulty in forming an idea of a situation, how can we imagine a mind that has a problem in knowing if it is a subject or only a complement of an indirect object (French stuff)?
And what about the voices of poets? They already have such a small audience, now he learns that half the population does not even have the ears to hear it.