Hot against cold, spring tends to kill softly winter, morning fog acclimates our eyes as soon as they come out of the dark tunnels of the night. Tomorrow, I’m going to a funeral. One of my mother’s brothers died after the inevitable fight against cancer.
Death resembles this mist on the spreading surface of our consciences. To grow old is to learn to see the shadow of our silhouette patiently approaching us while its refrain, initially inaudible, bewitches us more and more until we have only eyes and ears for the questions it imposes on us or for the incongruities it suggests to us.
When you die young, in the battlefield or in the prime of your life, in the lively arms of your lovers, you have little time or spirit to surrender yourself.
Abdication is the beginning of salvation. Religions have codified all the stages. And even if,out of our heads, we had driven the vengeful idols, the Trinitarian symbols, the grapes, the promise of greedy virgins, even if we had galvanized our thoughts, these efforts are, at the last moment, in vain, since we must give the soul back to this or that, the unspeakable thing from which we have distracted ourselves for a while at guessing its existence. Then you bend one knee, then a second, you make silence, you stick your forehead against the ground, and you go back to where you were, in a cloud of dust as soft as fog, as silent as happiness.
Not liberated at last, only destroyed as it should be.