The grains of sand | Guy Verville
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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.

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