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The city of solitudes

Modifié le : 2019/08/04

Bare­ly twen­ty or thir­ty years ago, lone­li­ness was still lived alone, among stag­ger­ing hours, wan­der­ing among our fur­ni­ture or in bars, between two drunk­en­ness or drowned in silence. Human col­li­sions occurred more rarely, at the whim of these acci­dents tinged with appoint­ments, as if souls, like atoms more or less hooked, remained stuck in the win­ter of possibilities.

Bare­ly half a cen­tu­ry ago, lone­li­ness was strug­gling on the sly behind the good man­ners and closed vas­es of pri­vate cir­cles. Human affairs could be bloody, tor­tu­ous, and con­vo­lut­ed, wars could mix the blood of all, the mechan­ics of encoun­ters seemed to be set by the slow clock of Providence.

It’s mid­night. I don’t sleep, too much cof­fee, thoughts, projects, wor­ries, expec­ta­tions, and dreams. I con­nect, I start soft­ware that stretch­es its anten­nas in the solar wind of the Inter­net. Imme­di­ate­ly, by WiFi waves, soli­tudes appear with, that is progress, the dis­tance that sep­a­rates me from them. I then resem­ble those soli­tary walk­ers who, to pass the time, linger on a bench to observe the con­stant agi­ta­tion of the city.

For twen­ty, thir­ty years, as if the phe­nom­e­non had its source in glob­al warm­ing, indi­vid­u­als have been more will­ing to clash in these spheres, which ini­tial­ly all remain vir­tu­al, real liv­ing pieces of lit­er­a­ture, from a syn­tax of shift­ing rules. They are bub­bling, naked, beau­ti­ful, ugly, dis­abled, liars, young, espe­cial­ly young, aging, and yet just as eager. There no longer seems to be any shame in car­ry­ing around their own’s soli­tude, or even dis­play­ing it, masked by pre­ten­sions or attire, under the best light or camped in the night of frank­ness. In some areas of the Inter­net, soli­tude, nest­ed with all its per­son­al­i­ty, no longer car­ries any­thing, will appear, for the devo­tees, out­ra­geous, over­worked, good to burn like an Amer­i­can flag under the feet of hard­ened people.

What is good nowa­days, when you remain hon­est, when you accept to put your image in this mir­ror that it is oth­ers who scroll almost too fast, when you lis­ten, when you play the game, when you get used to liv­ing alone, when you no longer know what to say and end up talk­ing to every­one, when you lose the mean­ing of the sen­tence, when you quick­ly find your­self sur­round­ed, desired, aban­doned, you end up desen­si­tiz­ing your­self, and very often find­ing a frag­ile qui­etude. Men of my sen­si­tiv­i­ty will know what this is all about.

A lot of ass­holes, per­verts haunt these places. Para­dox­i­cal­ly many beau­ti­ful peo­ple, hon­est men, but also nat­ur­al mod­esty, and authen­tic desires. We end up find­ing Face­book so bor­ing… too much lying, too much like the sup­posed real life. We end up also lying out­side this vir­tu­al world yet made of real col­li­sions which, by this alche­my remain­ing infi­nite­ly mys­te­ri­ous, end up giv­ing birth to love, cama­raderie, and kindness.

But be care­ful ! This world can be very hard, espe­cial­ly for those who get lost in it, with­out me being able to define here what damna­tion it is. I meet old peo­ple who are alien­at­ed by what they have not expe­ri­enced, I also meet all these young peo­ple who tell me, with­out telling me that life will hap­pen with­out me. I come into con­tact with the male uni­verse, the one that has no com­plex­es, that can ask you for the size of your sex, draws all the blood from your soul, wants plea­sure, but also that is thirsty to merge, to die in the arms of a greater force than itself. Yes, men of my sen­si­tiv­i­ty will under­stand what I’m saying.

The human being is an adven­ture, and it sur­pris­es me that we lie so much about this truth that inhab­its us all.

I remain a fish­er­man of souls and, in the absence of a com­pan­ion who would have promised me the future, I walk through a for­est of sin­cere friend­ships. There is so much to say here, mate­r­i­al for lit­er­a­ture. And it’s one o’clock in the morn­ing. Mean­while, the city of men plays the same sto­ry thou­sand times over.

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