Time | Guy Verville
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Time

Modifié le : 2019/07/13

Time is a hare that, with its big ears, hears all the sounds of life. When a human approaches, he runs away with his legs stretched.

Time is a hard snail of the leaf, which listens to no one, passes its way, always in this direction without pitfalls, confident of its path, it seems to have only one so much the road is slow and measured.

Time is a lover whose skin is the fourth dimension of the universe, for whom one prays, salivates, blasphemes and swears all promises.

Time is a blacksmith whose arm pounds our spine, regiments us on this fence of ossuaries planted by some divine monster around his desert kingdom.

Time gets longer when you’re dead, time flies too fast when you’re on fire. He is the puppeteer hanging his mummies and clowns. He lights the fires around which the shadows dance. It is nothing more than this intoxicating film of images, gestures, bravery, and wickedness.

Time is the melody coming out of the throats, the rhythm from the walking feet, the dancing feet or the warrior’s feet. He is the right hand of oblivion, the left hand of hope, elastic in the quanta world, pregnant among planets, so haunting in the vicinity of galaxies.

What more can I say? What to fantasize about? We can invent anything because time is our God, our ignorance.

Thus we are free, subject to time, to the seasons, forged into swords or picks, working men and women, unionized or slaves, happy when we enjoy, when we innocent ourselves, fearful when we wake up, for a time. A time? Can we really count it?

I, me, me, me, whose brains twirl under his skull, I stopped for a moment, tired, dizzy, aged while the crowd of young people around was still chanting the same insignificant dreams. I put one knee on the ground, exhausted. Time seemed amused, leaned against me to make me feel all its weight. I was tempted to let him fall on me so that he would crush me, take the air out of my conscience. It seemed easy, like a drowning during which the lungs exchange their air for water as if it were a natural, painless transfer. As in a long dream, another specialty of the time.

But I stayed on my knees, caught my breath. The days have passed. I may not have counted them, but I still observed the sun being born and dying, the moon turning white and then black. The time, always leaning against my back, had perhaps fallen asleep. As the days went by, it seemed lighter. A dead leaf, a misty prayer.

I finally got up, certainly shaken, dissatisfied, envious. The landscape had changed. All I could see were people in the distance, ants, and bees. I took a deep breath. Time let go of my hand, even gave me wings that he hung in my eyes.

Now that I’m reading this text again, I don’t know why I started it. Where do I live or go if I cannot be this Norway? Should we try to answer? Time makes things so much better.

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