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The time that hurts us

It’s like time has hurt me, I tell you. Or maybe it’s just the heat that weighs down my days. I find myself end­less­ly watch­ing the clouds. If they are only mov­ing, they end up com­ing back to the same shapes, puffed up like foam. Some­times the sky is clear, occa­sion­al­ly grey, like a tor­na­do, but the cumu­lus clouds take over at the slight­est opportunity.

Am I in pain ? No, it is my thought that stretch­es through the open­ing of the hours. In our ten­u­ous vision of real­i­ty, time appears as mul­ti­ple wounds that freeze into pos­si­ble mem­o­ries. The mind finds its account there, escapes again and again, eter­nal­ly young and valiant. What a para­dox to see the accu­mu­la­tion of scars wrin­kling our face and hands, soft­en­ing our skin at the wrong moments while our neu­rons cel­e­brate, undressed like the unceas­ing orgasm of will­ing adolescents.

My father con­fessed to us last week, look­ing at the pho­tos I had tak­en of him, that he did­n’t like to see him­self old. This touched and edu­cat­ed me. Our looks remain unchanged, beads or dia­mond pearls, whose prism nev­er tires of peel­ing away the light. It is said that the uni­verse is con­scious­ness and that it reveals itself in each of us. But I do not under­stand then that it takes so much effort to know, nor this blind­ness which makes us regret the com­plex­ion of our youth, curse the spots on our skin.

If we are the holo­graph­ic sum of the uni­verse, why don’t we see the arith­metic ? Because of a fall ? That’s what the Bible and oth­er fables tell us. What do we real­ly know ? Why are we born with­out vision and lat­er lie ? My African friend said to me that God helps the poor. I told him that if this were the case, there would be no poor peo­ple, and he would not be pray­ing that his house would not col­lapse in the slight­est wind. This God, I believe, was nev­er born, nev­er exist­ed except in our fan­tasies of dis­cov­er­ing the light.

We are per­haps the chil­dren of a force that exceeds our under­stand­ing. Quan­tum sci­ence unveils lit­tle by lit­tle the veil of this strange world. So be it. There is a catch. Human­i­ty would be at a cross­roads of some­thing, ready to make a log­a­rith­mic jump towards who knows where. The times are into Akasha, the zero-field, while the plan­et is chok­ing on the methane of our excrement.

I am will­ing to accept this ; I am will­ing to con­ceive that I can trav­el the world in one minute of my time. If I glimpse even a glim­mer of real­i­ty, time will still flog my sens­es, suck my desire to live.

Is there no true answer and youth­ful­ness but the silent breath­ing of our soli­tary thought ? Do we stop falling when we keep time silent ?

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