You have to survive

I always walk in a loop, return­ing again and again to the same dreams, tread­ing the same grav­el with my bare feet. The rest of my body is no more clothed, for I am naked in front of the uncer­tain, cold among the cold.

I can’t tell if it’s anx­i­ety or a dream. Life, all in all, is going quite well. Yet I feel uneasy, fog­gy, thirsty. I could say that this is a bour­geois dis­com­fort. If I were faced with neces­si­ty, I would have nei­ther the time nor the intel­li­gence to turn over the stones of the many hypothe­ses that revolve around my sun­ny mind.

I walk, and I search, and I feel pushed like all of us towards the zero point, the sin­gu­lar­i­ty, the place of no return, the cen­tre of nothingness.

A few hun­dred thou­sand years ago, after the dinosaurs had com­plete­ly dried up, our species appeared after the mam­mals had had their fun. Its con­science, a big deal, pushed it to unat­tain­able heights. By some trick of Nature, but we don’t know how it awak­ened or revealed itself to God one day.

Sud­den­ly, Adam and Eve dis­cov­ered them­selves naked. Shame, it is said, seized them. I don’t believe this. This sto­ry is undoubt­ed­ly a sym­bol, but above all, it is a lie, like all the rest of the many pages accu­mu­lat­ed by mad­men who thought they were clos­er to God than insects and bac­te­ria were long before them.

Shame came much lat­er, main­ly to hide the fear of know­ing and want­i­ng behind a swollen pride. The pity of pre­tend­ing to be able to sur­vive bet­ter, the shame of sur­pris­ing our­selves by not under­stand­ing the log­ic behind our rea­sons and our actions.

The shame of let­ting your fel­low man die because you don’t have the pow­er to defeat fate.

It is liv­ing inside a vor­tex, an arche­typ­al DNA. You walk with­out know­ing where and when your jour­ney ends. The thirst for learn­ing does not wane. Our dis­com­fort feeds our quest, and we stub­born­ly sigh with ease for each plea­sure of liv­ing that the hours grant us.

This is how our lives are made, with­out us being able to agree on what is worth liv­ing for. Is this the fault of our igno­rance, our uncon­scious­ness ? It is under­stand­able that if God is an inven­tion, he/​she is only made in our image, there­fore imper­fect, evolv­ing and pos­si­bly on the way to extinction.

If a design is writ­ten in the sky, it is still too ear­ly in our lit­tle minds to know its author. May human­i­ty resists ver­ti­go it feels in the face of this fog. May it final­ly open its eyes and under­take every­thing with love and rever­ie. In the mean­time, we must survive.