The grains of sand

It seems to me that I hes­i­tate more and more before speak­ing, as if my mind, drowned in wis­dom, had no word to describe how it feels. Accord­ing to the per­spec­tive, one could believe that the weath­er is noisy, that fatigue is thought­ful and heavy, that every­thing is fine, in the end, in this ocean of invisibility.

In anoth­er light, life con­tin­ues to be sim­ple and bright, naked in its sim­plic­i­ty, empress with­out clothes, her skin embroi­dered with made-believes.

And in the shad­ows, the life at work, the tasks to be pro­duced, the things to be done at home that is not done, the tooth repaired — I had lost one — , my lit­tle tran­quil­i­ty drag­ging away its lone­li­ness become a shagreen.

When I walk up the stairs of the sub­way and meet peo­ple locked in their white tow­er, when I meet the gaze of this one, who does­n’t real­ly look at me, of that one, who thinks else­where, when I see the beau­ty of the uni­verse that does­n’t speak to me, when I observe the young peo­ple strut­ting their prob­lems and their care­less­ness, I won­der if I would­n’t have built myself that mir­ror that only con­scious beings car­ry as a modesty.

I feel invis­i­ble these days. I don’t know if it’s sad­ness or calm. I con­fess to guess­ing my dreams, exam­in­ing my desires. I’m cross­ing my lit­tle pix­ie path. I laugh with my friends, I kiss my “flesh friends”. I’m stick­ing to them.

It seems to me that inside me, in not so long dis­tant past, all the oases were in me. Now, if my smile has stuck to the light of the flow­ers, I still have the feel­ing that the Sahara is col­laps­ing into the fun­nel of the Hourglass.