Hope caught between despair and procrastination, I write little, if not more. The scars must have closed permanently as I struggle to create worlds. Does a scar really heal? On closer inspection, the scars of lost ones do not completely heal. There are still amputations, but these eternal companions have regrown my limbs and kept me running, hungry for a challenge. Scattered by them, I struggle to find the tears and the hope that ran down my fingers to draw worlds, create beings, encounters, loves, deaths and lovers.
Another question comes to mind:
Do I need the pain to create?
I have been creating since my childhood. A time of long illness between home and hospital. Electroencephalograms galore to test my brain, prevent the next convulsion. I couldn’t go on sitting to deal with the unexpected crisis that arose. I spent summers for 10 years playing outside and at home. The fields around were an excellent playground. With my friend Ben, we had transformed bushes into a car. Such are the eyes of a child: transforming the existing into what one wants. 40 years later, I write these words. The child is always there inside and transforms the existing. One disease chasing another, I must create to forget. Pain has led me to write and takes me hostage or muse.
It is on this train that I think of all that. I raise my head and an overly tight suit catches my eye. My inner stylistic self wishes to criticize, and my reason watches over me. Here we go again for an inner dialogue:
Stylistic Me: It’s not possible, such a tight suit
Reason: Don’t look. He’s a little adjusted, but that’s okay.
Me, styling: slim suit, skins suit?
Reason: We’ve seen worse. Concentrate on your person and your pen so as not to run out of fuel.
Me, stylistic: it’s his body that can’t dry her tears, and I’m not even talking about her reflection.
Reason: it’s good!!!!!!!! I preserve it
Me, stylistic: me too
Reason: no, you’re misplacing it. Want to see it sink? Badly tailored suit, you say?
Stylistic Me: No!!! No, no, no and no.
Reason: we are silent.
Stylistic me: ok
A costume among many others.
Next to him, however, a little girl with an amused look smiles at me. Her eyes jewels accompanied her smile, and nothing exists except her. This passing time. I would have liked so much to have a daughter and give her all my love. She would have suffered when I died, but I must give this love. I have way too many. To you, my daughter whom I don’t have yet, your father’s love will never leave you and I will come back to you in dreams and memories. My voice will resonate in you like your grandfather’s in me. Your father, who loves you forever. I still have so many things to tell you.
I remain motionless in front of her. I just took a blow, even a series of blows that are not. Something has penetrated my eyes to reach my heart and knocked me out. A wave of love has just touched the neural structures of my heart. In these moments, I always have the same desire, that of saying I love you a little like saying thank you to the person who saved our lives. They save me from my solitary drowning. I love to love, or I like the sensation of love? I like people and even more women. Furthermore, I would so like to be married. A non-carnal love made up of waves and words, looks and envy. I write these words thinking of Miss H, Miss S, Miss another S, Miss M, Miss P, and all those who will read these lines.
I was born to love. I was designed to love. It is a life mission to reach out to others for me. I had to silence my impulses that appeared in adolescence to bring my soul to accept only love and only love…
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