The river and humility

Night comes back to haunt the city. It’s time for bed. I am still amazed at this time that pass­es with­out me being able to take a few nour­ish­ing sips. My bed will soon lock me in the dark. My room will turn into a nar­row con­fes­sion­al where. How­ev­er, all ideas, worlds, pos­si­bil­i­ties will take place and will not want to see their sins dis­solved in for­give­ness. It will be the dream, the chaos of the imag­i­na­tion, the cold tor­rent that over­comes anguish ; it will be the riv­er as wide as a St. Lawrence, the one that untir­ing­ly and tire­less­ly the artis­tic and poet­ic minds are try­ing to capture.

What will I do with these dreams ? Prob­a­bly noth­ing, because they will not have the lux­u­ry of hold­ing them back in the morn­ing. Some­times I feel like I’m real­ly wast­ing my time with this sleep, blind as I am. I often have the feel­ing that I am not suf­fi­cient­ly ready to receive ecsta­sy, busy, and tied to my real­i­ty. I’m seri­ous, I’m fun­ny, I don’t know anymore.

It is easy to write oxy­morons in this way, easy to hide your face, to guide the light. It is rel­a­tive­ly con­ve­nient to keep qui­et, to styl­ize your silence. It’s easy to wor­ry, to feel.

I’m thirsty, again and again. I’m not alone enough, and I would­n’t want to be iso­lat­ed. I’m hun­gry, always with a scream­ing bel­ly. I don’t want to die with­out burp­ing every­thing I have to say. I know only too well, how­ev­er, that even if I scream, the echo will be ten­u­ous, bare­ly formed. A cave in search of a sound. A griev­ing breath from his mouth.

That is what I should remem­ber from this riv­er of words ; that there is no point in try­ing to drink it all. I am on this Earth only to inhab­it the dream that belongs to me.