You are not there

You are not here, and I am look­ing for you. Since I was a child, or maybe much ear­li­er, in my mother’s cen­ter, her womb, or my father’s balls, his spears, I would have felt your pres­ence. It is all fan­ta­sy. My father didn’t think about me when he kissed my moth­er. What could she be think­ing then ? What was the pur­pose of their dance at that par­tic­u­lar moment of my conception ?

It doesn’t real­ly mat­ter to know, but it’s a fun game to imag­ine, if only to fill that void of your silence.

I had often had the impres­sion of per­ceiv­ing your shad­ow, for lack of your light, when I, also in an embrace, aban­doned myself to a promise of I don’t know what. Peo­ple who wan­der from flir­ta­tion to flir­ta­tion, I imag­ine, track down this taste of opi­um in every mouth, the pores ooz­ing with dis­sat­is­fac­tion. But it is not only about sex. The thirst, the quest is buried like a riv­er of deep lava as much in our bod­ies fer­tile with impuls­es as in our thoughts con­nect­ed to the north­ern lights of imag­i­nary worlds.

You are not there to please us but rather to guide us ? You are there when I write this note on my phone, when I bring food to my mouth, when I breathe, when I think of moth­er, father, sis­ters, friends, col­leagues and strangers. You are there when I want to offer my body or words. You have no respite, and you are amused by me when I sleep. I often wake up dis­ap­point­ed because your inven­tions were only pre­texts to make me under­stand some­thing else. Freud has lost his teeth as well as his Latin with that.

You are not here because you are every­where. I am prob­a­bly also else­where with you. You offer me the uni­verse. It is up to me, to us, to open the sex of our eyes.

And then, para­dox­i­cal­ly, you hide behind death like an old per­son who is ashamed of his/​her body. You are gen­er­ous for a while ; then you aban­don us slow­ly. We become noble blis­ters that fade away at ran­dom from a pen­du­lum that goes in all directions.

I don’t know what else to say, but I per­sist ; I go around in cir­cles, I brush up against you like a hun­gry cat. I under­stand the obsessed ones to obsess ; I devour myself of pas­sions hid­den from the gaze and the court of the good con­science. I remain vir­tu­ous, do not wor­ry (but you do not care, the proof, you make me do these things in dreams!).

This text could not see an end, and it would be unnec­es­sar­i­ly long. Your ani­mal skin, your heav­en­ly hair ! It will nev­er be futile, on the oth­er hand, to let the genie come out of its lamp to invent some fol­low­ing-up, with the hope to remain eter­nal­ly at your side, my life, and to make the oth­ers hear the strange agree­ment which binds us togeth­er in your benev­o­lent and trau­mat­ic silence.