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Les amants. Magritte

This vow

Peo­ple still get mar­ried nowa­days. The means and cel­e­bra­tions dif­fer, the vow always remains the same. They will be hap­py, they say to them­selves, as much in mis­for­tune as in hap­pi­ness. They will go through time, build a house, erect com­forts, be fertile.

The jour­ney often derails, the ship runs aground, drown­ings are numer­ous. Some unite like blind peo­ple, drugged by con­ve­nience or guid­ed by false prophets. There are those who live bad­ly, who do not under­stand the dai­ly effort it takes to dig, in a very deep fur­row, a sin­gle “I love you”.

Liv­ing is an art, doing it with some­one else by your side is some­times a feat, because so many peo­ple love with­out receiv­ing, or so lit­tle. They are legion to chew the crumbs of their pas­sions, obey­ing only their desires, clam­or­ing their tor­ments. Legion also those lovers, no war­riors here, who give up with­out fight­ing the embers of their hearts. There are all these lazy peo­ple who do not tol­er­ate human­i­ty and the move­ment of feelings.

How­ev­er, this seri­ous promise to love each oth­er does not always turn into blas­phe­my, tragi­com­e­dy, clown­ing. It’s a bit like the lot­tery. Many called, and few cho­sen. There are still many who, silent­ly, cross rivers, climb moun­tains or take small, qui­et and hap­py steps along the paths of every­day life. They build a house, wrap them­selves like cats in a small domes­tic box, pop­u­late the Earth, make their chil­dren hap­py, who in turn con­tin­ue to knit the family.

Per­haps their joy euth­a­nizes their truths, that the sac­ri­fices and haz­ards of fate lev­el out the unique col­ors of their exis­tence — it will be above all the eter­nal sin­gles who will be the judges — but since there is no final court, only the peace of their soul matters.

Yes, this promise is well worth all the grapes in par­adise. The great para­dox is that it is nour­ished at the source of a self­ish vow, a promise that lovers pro­nounce loud and clear in front of an assem­bly of con­verts or only tak­ing to wit­ness the warmth of their inter­twined bod­ies. A fiery, intense vow that one of them will grant to the oth­er as the ulti­mate sac­ri­fice, know­ing that he will not be able to live it.

“I want to die in your arms.”

And for those who sur­vive, who bury their lover, they still aspire to hap­pi­ness and promise, at the last breath, to coil them­selves in the mem­o­ry of past glances and caress­es once cherished.

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