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Reaching

Modifié le : 2016/09/01

Every morn­ing, when I open my eyes, I reach out my hands. The dawn that is tak­ing shape in me is try­ing to open my arms. While the already for­got­ten dreams unrav­el in the mag­i­cal pur­ga­to­ry of the uncon­scious, I have to get down to earth, return to this life.

I pray as the hea­thens do. I join my hands and plunge my face into it while still asleep. I stretch as if I had to grab the aer­i­al potion that will loosen me up. Liv­ing your days some­times requires courage, cross­ing them with­out poet­ry and a cer­tain brazen­ness. How to reach this light that swarms under our fin­gers, how to undo us, the good beasts of bur­den, our blind­ers that force us to look only at the hori­zon in front of us ? How can we wan­der through the cubic meter of our lit­tle soul ?

I try to promise myself, every time I wake up, that the day will teach me a lit­tle some­thing, I try to dream, not naive­ly like drool­ing in front of a lot­tery tick­et, but sim­ply to imag­ine. There, one sun­ny day, a rig­or­ous­ly present sun that invites me to chase the shad­ows, there, the dance of a squir­rel jump­ing from a bal­cony to a branch and forc­ing me to raise my head to observe its play, also there, in my head, when I get lost in con­jec­ture in order to find new ideas, again there, in all my desires as a mature man before a lazy and beau­ti­ful youth who obvi­ous­ly does not look at me, leav­ing me stunned and nos­tal­gic for my desires, my tor­ments as a wall-man who lis­tens too much to his mor­tal wis­dom, or some­times not enough, or final­ly here, in this blog writ­ten five years ago that I am hav­ing fun reword­ing, rewrit­ing it from top to bot­tom, because the past is also the present and the future and if I can mix every­thing well and make long sen­tences, maybe I will reach a Prous­t­ian nirvana.

Every morn­ing, I want to be alive even if I don’t always suc­ceed. It is too easy to live by let­ting the hours pass with­out com­pro­mis­ing your­self. And every evening, when my eyes get tired, and a horde of mer­maids run to an emer­gency, a late plane flies at night to stop me from dream­ing, I yearn for sleep, want­i­ng to return to the lair of a more sin­gu­lar shad­ow, danc­ing in a cave where bats have as much imag­i­na­tion as Sal­va­tor Dali.

You have to sleep well to wake up. It is nec­es­sary to be silent to find the word again. I wish myself good­night, I want to you a good day, and vice ver­sa, that your hours are con­scious­ly dreamed of, that they can bring you the smile that will eter­nal­ize both your nights and your days.

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