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.