Spring, slowly | Guy Verville
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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.

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