Anecdotal

After about five days of solitude at home, my mind is so quiet, so peaceful that I feel I hardly exist anymore. Or rather the smoothness of existing tends towards disappearance. Perhaps this is exactly why human beings love so much conflicts, problems and adversity. They take the agitation, the intensity for a proof of existence. And may be it is. I love, have always loved, the lightness of being, so yes, perhaps there isn't much 'life' to be found in something light, something hardly here at all. Does a stone exist more than a feather? Or is movement more alive than stillness? all debatable. And not important. The problems of the world are not light nor on the move. There are made of hate and blood, here to stay. And that, is irremediable. Funny enough there is the French word 'diable' (devil) in 'irremediable. The devil resides indeed in what cannot be solved. Like the thirst for blood and conflicts in the human heart.
What we need is a threat from space, from aliens yes, to understand that here on Earth, there is only one life, one planet. Or are the aliens already here and we just don't know it? Are they the source of all this madness, the  lust for killing and all the rest? Would they be wishing us the worse from time immemorial and somehow, driving us blindly right there? I might have read one or two conspiracies too many but when you consider the extant of belief in 'God', a bearded spaceman overhanging in heaven, there is little to discourage us contemplating an alternate version as a possible explanation for all our ills.... Keeping an opening mind to all and everything...

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.

To miss

To miss one's own life like you miss a target. The arrow is just gone off course. It was off course before it was thrown. The dice were trunked. The parcour was slippery and made to get you down. Or was it? Should I have been the archer AND the arrow at the same time ? The road And the runner all at once? Was I both all along ?
Are we total and unique master of our destiny, question never answered.
The Island beckons. I cannot wait to go back.
There, all is dark and silent. Nothing moves. The nights are long and cold. There is no hope. And that is the best thing of all.

Minuit

Lumiere douce de la bougie, gathering shadows and raising ghosts. Ton nom est Minuit et je m'appelle l'Ennui. Nous valsons bien ensemble dans le grand palais du Neant. Que le Temps est long ici, et courte la nuit. Je m'ennuies. Tu me seduis. Et puis...pfuit. La poudre entre mes doigts. Plus rien ne me reste de toi. Shadows and ghosts. Il est minuit. Et l'heure d'apres minuit n'existe pas. C'est l'heure noire des songes malheureux, des departs d'amoureux, des larmes au grand creux. Tu ne reviendras pas. Ma main reste froide, la bougie se calcine, la chambre retrecie, mangee d'ombres et de pleurs. Tu ne reviendras pas.
Treize heures sonnent au clocher du neant. Mais il n'y a pas de porte qui s'ouvre, pas de jardin merveilleux, pas d'univers heureux. Tu ne reviendras pas.

Fate

Fate is a gruesome beast that we cannot begin to understand. It feeds on our tears, on our despair and spite-out innomable horrors, that we then have to face. Sometimes we are led to believe that Fate is kind to us and indulges us with treasures and happiness. Beware. It is only a mask for more torments to come. Nobody escapes the icy grip of Fate. And I feel it creeping closer. We do not grasp any of its workings and mechanism. How could we ? The flea on the elephant's back will never know the whole story. Neither will we. Hence the need of so many for 'religion' 'religiere', etre relie a quelque chose, being bound to something in fear of otherwise falling into a bottomless void. religion is the easy rope of reassurance. Interesting up to a point but definitely not an explanation for the non-religiously inclined. So. What else than a terrible sense of helplessness and bewilderment in face of Fate when it comes raging into your quiet existence ?
If you still have time before it happens, sharpen the diamond of your mind, brighten its multi-faceted awareness, thank life for being here, with no other demand and desire than to exist and to breathe and to smile. The stars are constantly raining on us. Yet we remain impermeable to them. The Universe calls on us and we are not hearing.
Not God, not religion. But gratitude. A duty to happiness. And kindness. And a thirst for beauty. Always and everywhere.