Fragment #5

I am anaesthetised. I no longer look at women with envy nor lust. They just pass. I could be walking in a field of barley that my gaze wouldn't be any different. No longer any lump in the throat for I desired them so much or because I was completely crestfallen at being single. No longer any extra beating of the heart. I bored in them and out. Dreams of the only one, gone. There are thousands the like of us. Without being interchangeable on the short and long run, the medium part of our lives together are dragging days of boredom where we annul each other's impact. Before and after that, all hell breaks loose. Life deserves better than this, we ought to focus more. If this means to be alone, then I'll tread this path, occasionally looking back, but wall-clipping onwards, and through.

Too many defeated and crushed expectations to react. Too many seats between the woman I'd like to talk to - and who, perhaps, would like to talk to me. Too many times I have been rejected, I was stopped being spoken to. I can now stare unblinking through blood, and tears, whether of happiness or of pain. I can no longer cry thinking about my late mother. Dying children no longer move my heart. What a waste of sentiments. Stasis of the mind, equipoise of the feelings, for they lie at the abysmal pit of unconcernedness. It's already difficult for me to be concerned with myself. No one is for me, and I am for none but the windy moors of Ireland.

So many times I came close to dying, or to falling in love, succeeding but didn't sometimes I imagine what and who I would be now had all those things happened.

Best option ahead would be to burn my eyes and fingers to the steady whirlwinds of snow of Iceland and Finland. Delve into mythology more than I ever have. Devote my life to self-improvement so that I die a better, more accomplished person, useless to anyone, but better.

So many glances exchanged through the glasses of a metropolitan compartment. Glances which probably meant nothing, some of which were undoubtedly a blank stargaze I happened to cross the trajectory of. So many times I have been invited in someone else's life and later on we happened to dig up the misunderstanding which first brought us together. One does not build hope on those things, but one's idea of caring, interest and, well, some building blocks of self-esteem.

Not that I seem to have a choice or a say in this situation,

We are not meant to be happy. We are meant to hang together, to stick together come what may. To raise kids and give them enough love and values to make a sortie into the world of teeth and claws and start building something beautiful and worthwhile. The life of the worthy is one of toil and strain and tears. And of smiles and hugs and tears. And of hope and grievance. And of moving on and belief in oneself, in man and in whichever gives impetus to life.

Opinion

"New opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common."

John Locke, philosopher (1632-1704)

The Book of Place

"Destroying species is like tearing pages out of an unread book, written in a language humans hardly know how to read, about the place where they live."

Holmes Rolston III, professor of philosophy (b. 1932)

Over pitfalls, over graves

"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone."

Harriet Beecher Stowe, abolitionist and novelist (1811-1896)

Attention

"The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer."

Henry David Thoreau, naturalist and author (1817-1862)

Nom nom nom

"To read without reflecting is like eating without digesting."

Edmund Burke, statesman and writer (1729-1797)

Fragment #133

Il parlait une de ces langues qu'on parle à quatre pattes comme une bête

Les éclairs entaillaient le ciel et aucun mot n'était compréhensible il n'y avait plus de sens car la terre à nos pieds étaient aussi sombres que les montagnes de nuages par-dessus nous et les roulements de tonnerre nous assourdissaient et laissaient des bourdonnements longtemps dans les tympans

 

In action

"A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury."

John Stuart Mill, philosopher and economist (1806-1873)

Fragment #78

Et la lune qui ne me quitte pas de son œil de marbre, frondé de nuages liserés d'argent. Elle veille sur ma veille sur un monde qui a perdu sa splendeur, son intérêt, sa saveur.

Il n'y a plus d'herbe, plus de temps, de mots.

Les lumières de la ville se sont éteintes. Les lampadaires grésillent encore, inertie de chaleur estivale.

Je suis fatigué. Tout comme les feuilles molles au fond du lit de la rivière, si basse cet été qu'on peut compter chaque pierre, qu'on voit les gardons frénétiques dans leur flaque se battre pour rejoindre le maigre courant.

J'ai donné la dernière once d'espoir. À bien y réfléchir, je n'en ai jamais réellement eu besoin. Maintenant que je suis sur le seuil de la nuit à attendre l'aube, je n'ai plus besoin de rien que le manteau des nuages. Il n'y a plus d'autre intérêt que le vol, le cheminement aérien avec les oiseaux entre les nappes de brume, les orages et les embruns. Rien de tel que de voir un éclair du dessus foudroyer le monde en bas.

Ce matin, j'ai ouvert les yeux sur le désert de ma vie, et je me suis mis en marche, une gourde d'eau à la ceinture et une poignée de dattes attrapées à la va-vite dans la poche. Ne reste plus qu'à se mouvoir à pas de loups sur les cordes du violon et à écouter le sable chanter.

L'envie de vomir passe avec l'émeute, et ce n'est pas vraiment du dégoût, mais de l'attente concentrée qui est devenue amère. On ne devrait jamais être amer. Il est bien navrant de pleurer de ces choses-là.

Je fais partie des gens laids.

OCD