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.