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The torch

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.

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