Spring, slowly

Modifié le : 2016/09/18

Spring, slow­ly, achieves its goals. Win­ter stretched its rainy, cold marsh­mal­low until the trees, daf­fodils, cro­cus­es, flies, and what­not man­aged to claim their playground.

For my part, the cold sea­son seems to per­sist in my hopes of see­ing things move for­ward. The book is in the hands of the pub­lish­er, the finances remain frag­ile. Every­thing resists, every­thing is afloat. I am sur­round­ed by love and friend­ship, I have a good job, I per­sist in tak­ing singing lessons. So noth­ing to report except that my hours are a con­stant let­ting go. Things will hap­pen well when it is nec­es­sary, that is, when no one decides. My heart is calm and tor­ment­ed, as usu­al, my vision in the brush, my eyes tired.

What else can I say ? That I always walk to work, that the move­ment of trees per­me­ates my sens­es, that my own breath­ing sings to me of the tides of exis­tence. Some­times, when I take the sub­way, the bus, I look at peo­ple who are not look­ing at me, busy with these oth­er real­i­ties that make up the gar­den of their hours.

So many of us live and do not know each oth­er. When I talk with men, on the Inter­net, I feel the same feel­ing of being alive, cer­tain­ly often more raw and direct, since, on these net­works, sex is in all con­ver­sa­tions, mouths, ears. I was sur­prised then by the great dif­fer­ence in lev­el between these men in heat and those in the sub­way, so silent and opaque.

But it is nev­er­the­less the liv­ing, this great mys­tery that will indeed escape me one day, when I may not expect it, as it was so for that poor young woman who had an acci­dent on her bicy­cle, as it was for all those peo­ple who have pop­u­lat­ed human his­to­ry and who will soon pop­u­late it.

My heart is beat­ing. I hear its echo on the walls of my nar­row suf­fi­cien­cy. My dreams, oh my dreams are so free in my nights. Isn’t that our biggest frus­tra­tion ? That, in the imag­i­na­tion, every­thing is pos­si­ble, even eter­nal ? I dis­ci­pline myself to keep the hope of ecsta­sy. And I try to dream con­stant­ly. When I walk, when I sleep, when I work, when I’m afraid, when I for­get. No one can live in my place, no one can scream in this cave where I was born, where I will die.

For­tu­nate­ly, our con­sciences have the sonar of bats so they can trav­el in this world where you, the read­er, flies just as blind­ly. Our encoun­ters are possible.