The promisse of happiness

Caravaggio, Eros (Details). Source

I don’t know what my mind is up to. Like all the oth­ers, my brain is a gelati­nous sponge pop­u­lat­ed with mean­ders and man­groves inside which dreams are fight­ing each oth­er in an atavis­tic struggle.

I don’t know if I am dri­ven by strings or by habits too old to under­stand. My thoughts seem both ran­dom and auto­mat­ic, pup­pets or puppeteers.

Nep­tune is pass­ing through the celes­tial cir­cle of my birth. The plan­et feeds and enno­bles my natal Mer­cury for a few more months. My astral chart is the only map whose roads I know, but I do not see any des­ti­na­tion. My exis­tence is a frac­tal among many oth­ers, a drop of water that is no longer one in an ocean that is indif­fer­ent to it. The monks of the East nod in silence. The West­ern philoso­phers raise an eye­brow and nev­er low­er it again.

I must dis­ci­pline myself to stay awake ; only my con­science can dis­tract me. The rest – what my sens­es pick up and drink in – forms a spec­ta­cle seal­ing my words.

I wish I under­stood my past’s chival­ric and karmic route ; I wish I could make a sto­ry of it and be proud, nour­ished and con­tent. But I don’t know what’s clump­ing in my thoughts. I stand there lis­ten­ing to the ghosts and the sen­sa­tions, and I am told I must for­get them. I am in no hur­ry. There is no rush because the film of our life is no match for the abstruse math­e­mat­ics of the whole of reality.

I mea­sure my hap­pi­ness, and it does not fill a glass. That’s why, each time I bring it to my lips, I refuse to drink it, already hap­py to taste its promise.


  • Chris

    Chris %2022/%07/%02 %18:%Jul 0

    Beau texte....

    Je me rappelle à l'aube de mes 45 ans, je disais à mes amis qu’en vieillissant, mon cerveau devenait comme du jello et que pour rester jeune je devais m’astreindre à casser le moule et sortir de mes habitudes, sortir de ma zone de confort...

    Pas facile, ça demands de l’énergie...

    Le problème est qu’un jour on abdique et on accepte le réel, notre vie.. Que peut-être on ne changera plus.

    Viellir, c’est accepter.

  • admin

    admin %2022/%07/%03 %15:%Jul 0

    Vivre, c'est accepter, je crois. On change toujours un peu, mais on reste également soi-même.