The current season remains grey. The colors are usually artificial or overly vivid. The weather sometimes gives snow, sometimes rain, and especially a sky covered with poorly washed cotton wool.
It is a gloomy, yet sweet weather, it is a daily life burdened with complicated details. It is like the absence of a miracle, a silent desert, prayers addressed to a phenomenon that is beyond my comprehension.
Human warmth does not come out of its shell. There are more smiles and passions, even wars, on the Internet than on the streets of Montreal. Elsewhere in the world, blood is actually flowing. But we are far from Syria, from Afghans and other boiling souls. Oh, of course, there are bruises in our quiet areas. But it is muted by the thick walls of progress or our weariness.
There are days when I forget that I have, in my hands, the color palette of my destiny.