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.


Maybe not.

A certainty with a small final point.

And the hope of never drowning in it.