Living the present

As if to ease our anx­i­ety, spring arrived ear­ly this year. We were treat­ed to anoth­er qui­et Sun­day, filled with the sweet­ness that lungs love.

At least the healthy ones. It is a dif­fer­ent sto­ry in hos­pi­tals, for peo­ple caught by the virus, or for oth­ers whose des­tiny is unrav­el­ing through the ax of a tragedy. Noth­ing is less evi­dent than hap­pi­ness and misfortune.

Many passers-by in the alley stopped in front of our cher­ry tree in bloom, tak­ing pic­tures of them­selves against it.

In our gar­den, the trees are stretch­ing, silent­ly burst­ing their buds, ready to gob­ble up the sun. Insects are also emerg­ing from the ground, some of them hov­er­ing around the first flow­ers. The prim­ros­es are already dying.

Observ­ing this appar­ent peace brings back the fatigue accu­mu­lat­ed by the con­fined win­ter. One breathes a great sigh of relief and promis­es one­self bet­ter days with­out open­ly admit­ting it. Who knows what the next few months will bring. Are we in the eye of a hur­ri­cane or on the edge of a weak­en­ing storm ?

Once again, my fin­gers on the key­board are like those sleep­ing branch­es. My con­scious­ness, my thought, my being, what­ev­er I call it, refus­es the oth­er sea­sons, hal­lu­ci­nates itself in its spring­time, dress­es in as many fab­rics as there are dreams, inflates the sails.

But in this the­atre, despite the draperies, the sets, and the ideas, I remain naked, frag­ile in the slight­est wind, gaze, hope.

All the same, this spring is beau­ti­ful. I slow­ly close my eyes to open them bet­ter, con­tent with the eter­nal­ly present moment.