Reaching | Guy Verville
A note to my English readers
The texts on this site are originally written in French. The English version is produced with the help of Deepl.com and Grammarly.
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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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