The blood of each road

Modifié le : 2016/09/05

The blood from each of the roads in this city looks like a ner­vous fire­fly pro­ces­sion. Few­er peo­ple than dur­ing the day, motorists and truck dri­vers run at high­er speeds, with their feet on the accel­er­a­tor, weigh­ing like a flash dream.

I went to the ATM and swal­lowed up the fruits of my labor. Noth­ing real­ly stops in a city, noth­ing stops com­plete­ly on this Earth. When we sleep, peo­ple work a lit­tle for us, when we wake up, we take over a bit for them.

I slow­ly bumped my fore­head against this real wall, not to lament as some hyp­no­tized peo­ple do, but to crack the weak bark of my consciousness.

My mind is a mus­cle ; it is like this night that invents more than gray cats. My encoun­ters are dreamt days and nights. I try to keep my eyes open even if I, too, snug­gle against the shoul­der of the hand­some Mor­pheus. But is he that beau­ti­ful ? He is only a poly­mor­phic but­ter­fly that takes the form of our desires.

Life gets impa­tient when it is con­tin­u­ous­ly giv­en the light of ambrosia. I like the night, I want to under­stand, I like to dis­cov­er. This is how it is with our encoun­ters. The haz­ardous fruit is crunched like a deli­cious apple.

But that night, cash­ing only my check in a patient and cold machine, there was no one to tell me a sto­ry. I wise­ly went home and fell asleep. Mor­pheus lay down next to me and intox­i­cat­ed me.