The breeze of the moment

Modifié le : 2019/07/26

I invari­ably look out the win­dow when I wake up. The appear­ance of the tree is a reminder that real­i­ty is always there to erase the last dream­like illusions.

The green of this tree has not yet reached its full val­ue as if it was hes­i­tat­ing between liv­ing and dying. The scale of its swing, the col­or of the sky above it, the strength of the light gives me the exact pic­ture of the qual­i­ty of the day.

I’m not cyclothymic. I am a docile man, per­haps even a lit­tle shy in my pas­sions. I am also one of those who lis­ten to their dreams when they man­age to remem­ber them and who are dis­ap­point­ed to see them dis­ap­pear. These quick­ly erased worlds are so preva­lent. Last night again, I dreamt that a friend clum­si­ly offered me a young lion cub. He want­ed to please me, it was obvi­ous, but as I am a dif­fi­cult per­son to please, he felt com­pelled to go to extremes.

I was hor­ri­fied, afraid of this beast so beau­ti­ful, but so dan­ger­ous. I was angry with this friend for putting me in this del­i­cate posi­tion of hav­ing to refuse the gift. I had to call a zoo, the police, to get out of this dead end. I was moved by his ges­ture but did not want to sub­mit myself once again to the demands of his unease.

A lion ? The strength of fate, I think. The naked truth. Despite the urgency of the dream, I was nev­er­the­less dis­ap­point­ed to wake up and real­ize that it was once again only one of those views of the mind. I was out of danger.

These voic­es, in my dreams, always leave me on my hunger, like a char­ac­ter in a Her­mann Hesse nov­el. Or my thirst. That voice in my head that I force myself to lis­ten to is so weak, even inaudi­ble, so dis­tant. That voice seems to know every­thing about the uni­verse, but our respec­tive gram­mar seems irrec­on­cil­able. So I can’t trans­late any of its whis­pers. The day calls me out of bed as I des­per­ate­ly try to take notes.

God is tru­ly Silence. There is prob­a­bly anoth­er one of those chimeri­cal whims that this ghost wears in our minds. And for the most poet­ic of us, it is some­thing to talk about, reminds us of our appetite to know the ulti­mate fla­vor of the world.

No mat­ter what we are, there is no val­ue in being a poet or mechan­ic, a dancer, a doc­tor, an aes­thete, a prog­en­i­tor, and all women com­bined, if we do not have the humil­i­ty to sub­mit to our dreams.

That’s why I’m hap­py and sad in life. I can­not choose my side, because this tree, in the morn­ing, sub­mits to the breeze of the moment.