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Photo Pierre Laroche

The lake

It is a lake with shift­ing land­scapes, which no storm can real­ly dis­turb. Its water seems deep to me, but I’ve nev­er seen its bot­tom. Its banks abound with trees, streams from which mem­o­ries arrive, pains such as joys and orgasms, from which birds of thought sing.

At first glance, it is a small lake swept by the wind of every­day life. The sun paints its nar­cis­sis­tic path there with­out being able to leave a last­ing rut on the water. A mist, some­times, accom­pa­nies low and grey clouds. Snow and win­ters also immo­bi­lize it, win­ters that seem more and more insis­tent, appro­pri­at­ing spring, sum­mer and autumn.

This lake, my breath­ing, with­in me, nour­ish­es, will nour­ish my days. On a metro plat­form, along the side­walks, all over the world, like oth­er rivers, swarms of deep lakes clump togeth­er, seem­ing­ly unaware of what sur­rounds them.

Every morn­ing, every night, my lake absorbs allu­vi­um and sed­i­ment, nev­er seem­ing­ly dry­ing out. Per­haps because its bed meets the galac­tic lakes, the con­scious­ness of the forests, the fur­nace of a benev­o­lent and blind god.

I feel with­in me this her­itage, the inven­tion of souls. I hear myself, I watch myself breathe. My lake, my home is my only happiness.

Hap­pi­ness ?

Maybe not.

A cer­tain­ty with a small final point.

And the hope of nev­er drown­ing in it.

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