The weekends follow one another and look alike; the other days of the week are no different. My boredom, with its head on the shoulder of my astonishment, observes my passion, my fire, dwindling as if it were only wise to let go, as if the embers tasted better than the direct flame.
I remember my adolescence, the emotions that crashed on imaginary cliffs. I also remember my first loves, which, despite their intoxicating physical juices, did not have an aftertaste of bitterness and contradictions.
I have always been, and still am, passionate. A torch enlivens me. It can no longer so much burn the stages, shine in the experience. There is, in this immobility, a thoughtful response, accompanied by a sadness without tears. I am made of a misunderstood skin, barely touched. The whys of my story, the conclusions of my gestures, the patient accumulation of my memory occupies no more space than a grain of sand on a beach polluted with abandoned shells.
Such is life, loving and heartless, giving with one hand, taking away with the other. Happiness is probably achieved by not asking oneself ultimate questions, for those who are happy would be those whose minds are empty and whose hearts immersed in hope.
Would the moment I realize that I have always been blind be the day I will reach happiness? It is a question for a monk sitting on a cushion. There is no answer, no concern. Suffice to stir the soup constantly, to dance perpetually despite the strings of our ignorance. Suffice to be there, consume the oxygen offered to us, without waiting for the last judgment which will only concern dissociated atoms, once ours, randomly getting lost in the cauldron of a star.