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The anticolor

Modifié le : 2019/07/13

The light of autumn is not hap­pen­ing at the moment. This is indeed an adver­tised chron­i­cle. We take out a warmer gar­ment if pos­si­ble water­proof. We pro­tect our­selves more from gusts. The com­mon cold is so easy to catch. The morn­ing is black, the end of the day is almost as dark and we arrive home with the impres­sion that it is time to go to bed. We’ll pull on the time zones to get some light back on. It will be sun­ny dur­ing the week and there will also be a lot of show­ers, fights, mix-ups. It is still bet­ter to get used to it, as you always do. In a month in the winter.

My sea­son, my life, remains in a fog. I have my suns, my loved ones, and I have my grey or neu­tral days. I too am get­ting used to my win­ter ; I aspire to escape those sea­sons of the mind that only make you dizzy with­out know­ing where the boat is sail­ing. I look up at the veiled sky, pull up the col­lar of my coat. I have all these words, these dead and liv­ing leaves, that I leave in the rain. My brain is a patient tree. Almost in win­ter. Per­haps the soul is a slate and life a rein­car­na­tion. I’ll nev­er fuck­ing know any­thing about it, just as I’ll nev­er know how to count the stars in the galaxy.

And I still have this plea­sure in writ­ing this absurd painting.

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