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.