Supreme Soviet

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

My coun­try no longer seems to be this win­ter that the poet was loud­ly pro­claim­ing, at least not in the metrop­o­lis. It’s still rain­ing, and the snow can’t resist. Yes­ter­day after­noon, I saw a big crow strut­ting on the neigh­bor’s roof. How­ev­er, I do not see the oth­er birds, undoubt­ed­ly wis­er than the reck­less one, because, as we all know, win­ter cer­tain­ly did not throw the tow­el, even if, because of warm­ing, it now prefers to stay a lit­tle fur­ther east. The Que­bec of the big city is undoubt­ed­ly becom­ing more Londonish.

I cer­tain­ly don’t feel like stick­ing my nose out. Besides, my boots are tak­ing on water. My mon­ey is being used to spend oth­er things than sea­son­al essen­tials. We are about to enter Feb­ru­ary. Peo­ple around me are already show­ing impa­tience, their morale is declin­ing, and they will still go to work.

I close my eyes, I observe this fatigue, sed­i­ment more tena­cious than snow, envelop­ing me with its tem­po­ral scales. Today is anoth­er day full of hope and tasks to be done. Even if I remain well camped in my cush­ions, with my legs crossed, the Inter­net under my Ari­ad­ne’s fin­gers, I know how to move for­ward. I have dreams of head­ing to unex­plored lands, undoubt­ed­ly mag­nif­i­cent. I want to rest. My ideas, like waves, col­lide with the Great Cliff, very high with its cap­i­tal letters.

I open my eyes, not only to revise this text, but also to take my place among the ants. Time is my Supreme Soviet.