Je pleure d'attendre

There are planets for every dream, for every transgression and devotion...Our world is not alone, it is only hidden, separated. Crack the code, break the wall and you fly free. The march of your desires and hopes is  on. Death is a door, a transformation. 'Rien ne se perd, rien ne se cree,  tout se transforme' Ascend the mountain, feel the wind, deploy your wings and take off. The infinite is waiting and la-bas, la-bas, elle attend...Take her hand, elle attend, Le vol d'antant, le vol des grands silences, le vol dans l'au-dela, il commence...Il est lent mais puissant. Il t'emporte et tu ne reviens pas, tu es  parti, pas de revenant. The hour of my death is the time of my delivrance. en partance. 'Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne le temps dont on s'eprenne'. Je pleure d'attendre.
La pluie sur moi, larmes du ciel, la pluie qui me parle de toi, l'eau-memoire ou tout est ecrit, la pluie de l'amour du temps, rain of tears from the departed, la pluie du temps, qui nous attend.
Quand il pleut, tu es la. Quand il pleut, je suis avec toi.

As pollen rising in the air

Les apres-midis lents et tranquilles, loin du monde, pleins d'oubli, de replis, et de melancolie... Des apres-midis ou l'on oublie pourquoi on vit...Dehors, le vent gris, le froid et l'ennui. Dedans, la musique, les chats, et le vide. Ma vie peserait si peu dans une balance.  Peut-on me dire pourquoi je vis? je ne l'ai jamais su. ou ne m'en rappelle plus. 'The lightness of being' Oui je suis nee le jour de St Leger, curieusement. Une fatalite. Ma vie est si legere qu'un jour, un seul soufle de petit evenement me fera envoler...J'ai soigneusement travaille a cette legerete. Pas de responsabilite, minimum de liens, familiaux et amicaux. Surtout pas d'enfants et de liens pesants: what was once called in a novel  'the unbearable lightness of being'. Only for me that is the only bearable way of being. Any other way is a delusion. Sad or cheerful, still a delusion. The one and only thing that would have matter, that I cannot even name, has not happened. So be it. Melancholy is my name.  A name that wont be remembered. A name as light as pollen rising in the air...

From the island

Where is the island? under water? up in the clouds? Josephine lives there, all alone. Has been for centuries. Never get old, never gets reborn. She's eternal. She is my soul. The one I cannot reach and rejoice in. Desolation is her name. Living abandonned from all and everyone, in a cold limbo of grey hope and soft despair. And you wonder why I love the North, Nordic Noir, winter and solitude...All our souls have abodes, landscape and atmosphere. This is my soul. A lost island in a parallel universe of grey fog, cold clouds, and unforgiving ocean. No one is welcome. No one ever comes anyway.
Josephine has rituals. Like visiting the shore every morning at dawn. A bottle might have strayed there. With a message. A content. A connection. So far the shore has never given any. Just sands, rocks, and drift wood. Shells and birds corpses. Empty handed and empty hearted, Josephine goes back to the house. And wait some more. Sometimes tears come to my soul. I am Josephine's envoy here. But not a very good one. I have failed her. I have failed my life.