The grey roads

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.