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With time

With time, the poet sang, every­thing goes away. It is true that every­thing seems to point towards a hori­zon that we nev­er reach. Life goes, the pain goes, the joys do not remain any­more in place. In the heart of the Earth is sim­mer­ing a hell of plas­ma that some­times splash­es us with vol­canic smiles and burns our skin. Galax­ies stun and clash for mil­len­nia, swal­low each oth­er like whales swal­low the plank­ton, mouths search for each oth­er, tongues loosen, sali­va and hor­mones warm up, the sex­es swell and the uterus explodes.

In time, we would for­get where we came from, we would not remem­ber any­thing while igno­rance shakes our faces with a bou­quet of promis­ing car­rots. Alas, there­fore, like the poet, bit­ter and wise, repeats, every­thing is leaving.

I do not agree with that.

I’m more on the side of inno­cent galax­ies and naive sea­sons. Who’s lead­ing them by the nose ? It’s a mys­tery. Maybe noth­ing. That’s why I per­sist. We’ll nev­er know the end. Let’s just start over.

If with time, we no longer love, it is for, of course, the next day, want­i­ng to love again.

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