It’s like time has hurt me, I tell you. Or maybe it’s just the heat that weighs down my days. I find myself endlessly watching the clouds. If they are only moving, they end up coming back to the same shapes, puffed up like foam. Sometimes the sky is clear, occasionally grey, like a tornado, but the cumulus clouds take over at the slightest opportunity.
I was recently asked how I perceived a year. It was a game told by a colleague who had entertained her family and friends. There were four or five of us who answered, and the answers were very varied. Some see the year as just boxes in a calendar; others see it as a path, a horizon. My response was honestly circumspect: I don’t see it.
Time may be, at the end of the day, just a long corridor immobilized in the matter, a train with no head or tail. The matter is slower than our humble steps. We run, dance, frolic, having no echoes but this silence higher than our natures, more immense than our hopes, just as profound as our ignorance.
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.