The ear-eye | Guy Verville
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The texts on this site are originally written in French. The English version is produced with the help of Deepl.com and Grammarly.
picture for the-ear-eye
Sun over the Metropolitan

The ear-eye

Modifié le : 2019/07/13

The sun, that morning, was fighting against cloudy algae. The wind had risen during the night and, after a few hot, too humid days, the freshness was welcome. Passers-by did not seem to realize it, nor did motorists on the 40 who, at the speed they were going, certainly did not remember that only two weeks ago a tanker truck had exploded on this road, killing one person. No one cared about it. Their lives went on.

It was my first day back at work. A deluge was announced in the late afternoon. For the moment, nothing seemed to be there except the subtle light scattered in this grey cotton wool that could not dry out the sky. I wasn’t inclined to take the subway and, since I had moved little during my holidays, nailed to my bed, I wanted to slow down my pace that I already have slow. I was happy to be able to walk, to be finally upright after fighting an intruder—a virus? a bacteria? I will never know. Anyway, I wanted to lie down this morning. I’m rarely in a hurry. My best friend is always four steps ahead of me when we walk together. He’s making me breathless so much his legs are alive.  

This sun appearing in its own thoughts seemed to announce autumn. We are already in the last days of August. Time will always have a free hand. It never gets tired. On my side, the appetite has returned, but it is not greedy. The thirst is there but does not want any alcohol. Nights are young, but I have a few plans. I lost weight a little too quickly. I imagine that, as the forces return, the belly will ask for its due. I feel like a monk, alone, frugal.

Throughout the week, I held my breath a little, taking pleasure in not being intelligent. I certainly worked, smiled, debugged this and that, but nothing more, all in a comfortable grayness. Like a tree smelling the season, my eye took note of the subtle shade changes in the trees, in the late light and also in the echo of my cavernous thoughts. A tree doesn’t move, it makes its branches go like that as if it wanted to feed its dreams. I sang a little, with a funny voice, I went to see my doctor who, surprisingly, was on time for my appointment. I don’t have anything really dramatic, it seems. He prescribed me not sleeping pills, but an antacid. My stomach is heavy. Just a little discomfort from a guy who likes to complain.

This text is difficult to write because it doesn’t go where I wanted to take it. It seems to want to censor itself.

Soon it will be autumn and its scents so beautifully vegetal. And me, and you? What are the colors of your season? I’m thirsty to hear people. I’m an ear-eye who worries a little about the silence of winter.

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