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Without wings

It was very cold a week ago. It was a Sun­day, I went shop­ping at the local gro­cery store. The sun, very present, could do noth­ing against the icy wind. There, on the side­walk, these wings, prob­a­bly an already weak bird that a cat will soon fin­ish, tak­ing only what could real­ly sat­is­fy its hunger.

I guess it’s a cat any­way… how do I know. I took the time to pho­to­graph the scene while a few passers-by looked at me with disgust.

Since then, the pho­to has remained elec­tron­i­cal­ly frozen in a direc­to­ry on my com­put­er while my mind tried in vain to say some­thing deep and not too hon­eyed, or too sad or too self-flagellating.

With­out being melo­dra­mat­ic, I have the feel­ing to look at myself, through this pho­to, in a mir­ror, immo­bi­lized in a dead-end thought. I have done so many things, I have explored, to the height of my mod­est capac­i­ty, some artis­tic worlds, I raise my voice every day and, at night­fall, I rush into well-washed sheets. I am silent­ly tired, up to date in my pro­fes­sion­al work, suc­ceed­ing rather well, but still in neu­tral, with­out these wings that I think I have lost a little.

The peo­ple around me will quick­ly tell me “but come on, you have every­thing for your­self” and I won’t deny that fact. I also know that there is no point in run­ning, that you have to enjoy what you have, to start at the right time, to be kaizen and zen, to roll your lit­tle ball of existence.

These torn wings have there­fore con­front­ed me with this very real real­i­ty of our pur­pose and, as a human being, I am ready to com­ply with it. I real­ly don’t have a choice any­way. So let’s stop cry­ing and roll up our sleeves and live.

That’s a good point, isn’t it ?

These lone­ly wings have also remind­ed me of all those men who love men and who, in coun­tries not too far away, are forced to exchange a lit­tle dry ten­der­ness for stealth sex. I have friends in these coun­tries for whom love is not wrapped in the dream of angels. They pre­tend to stay in line, take wives, have chil­dren, and fan­ta­size about black angels, ejac­u­la­tors. I have friends here too for whom love is made with­out kiss­ing, some­times in vio­lence. They do not believe in fideli­ty (nei­ther do I real­ly), and remain both lone­ly and hap­py in wank, unhap­py in love. Basi­cal­ly, I may be hold­ing the sub­ject of my next nov­el here…

I’m get­ting con­fused, as always. Every­thing can say so much and every­thing leads me to every­thing or nothing.

Maybe now my wings are dif­fer­ent, maybe it’s no longer nec­es­sary to glide. Maybe I real­ly need to learn to sail on tan­gi­ble dreams and waves.

Maybe…

It’s grey today. We don’t see the sky of possibilities.

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