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.


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