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The alchemy of wings

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

There are ideas, sounds, images, dizzi­ness that just want to live. They bub­ble, chirp, are rude. My head is noisy.

A few days ago, dur­ing this week, when I did not stop work­ing, due to a clien­t’s emer­gency, I focused on a report about but­ter­flies. This was a long-winged break in my mind. This insect fas­ci­nates us all the more because it is threat­ened in sev­er­al regions of this plan­et. It is the pre­ferred sym­bol for women who like to have it tat­tooed to mark an impor­tant stage of trans­for­ma­tion in their lives ; they love but­ter­flies, not so much for the del­i­ca­cy of their wings as for what they represent.

To trans­form itself, the cater­pil­lar locks itself in, becomes, in its cocoon, a real soup. There is noth­ing left of it, but a mag­ma of vibrat­ing cells which, through the mil­i­tary order­ing of their des­tiny, are trans­formed into a being ready to fly away. Dis­creet Phoenix, the but­ter­fly some­times trav­els thou­sands of kilo­me­ters to fol­low its food or reproduce.

When I observe, through the eyes of the reports, both the beau­ty of the world and the acts vom­it­ed by human­i­ty against it, when I con­clude that all this is part of what the uni­verse is up to, since it is let­ting it hap­pen for the moment, when I look at what sur­rounds me, that every­thing seems so calm, in place, and yet so incom­pre­hen­si­ble, when my ear is reach­ing out, and that no god comes to speak, I tell myself that some­thing will inevitably hap­pen. Unless it’s, after all, my haughty imag­i­na­tion that thinks it’s Cas­san­dra or Napoleon.

There are ideas, sounds, images, ver­ti­go in a vol­cano. I’m bub­bling, chirp­ing, stay polite. My head is noisy, the cave of my thoughts is vast. Am I a cater­pil­lar ? Am I in alchemy ?

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