We would like to protest. Men on the planet seem to avoid going in circles. A war here, a liberation there, exploitation here, domination there. Ideas, the soup of all our aspirations, do not taste the same in each other’s kitchen.
We will say that it is only a Darwinian struggle for the survival of the fittest. There is undoubtedly a little bit of truth; after all, we are only a breadcrumb trail, or even a fragile and dead spider trail. The universe moves by rules of which we are barely aware.
I am surprised, however, at our determination to complicate things. When men live by love, says the poet, there will be no more misery. It is simple, hopeful, but complete.
However, it seems more natural to make it complicated, because if not, how else could Shakespeare have written his dramas? How could we get drunk?
It may be that, despite all our good intentions, we feel this inexorable emptiness that is our finiteness and that, despite our sincerity, we come to submit to our ignorances, because we are tired of wanting to understand, that it is, therefore, easier to stop our questions by naming them blindly by all the graceful names that bring us to the Spirit.
We are weak. Our fall is recounted in many sanctified books. It does not seem to be the time yet when we will understand these mysteries.
Nevertheless, we would like to protest, we want to fight for a little happiness, with all the justice that is ours. Let us forget the Nation, let us return to the necessity of the Heart.
Words in uppercase. There are still many stories to tell. It is the poet who must be happy.