The breeze of the moment | Guy Verville
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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.

Tags:Dreams

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