The sun casts its light daily on me, on us and on you. My gaze inevitably turns on me, on us, on you. The existence is incredible, the reality so pregnant, beautiful, implacable, heavy, uncompromising.
I don’t understand all this violence around and within me, as if we couldn’t bear the burning reality that burns our eyes, of course. Do people really prefer this hypnotic trance of everyday life? Push a pencil, clean up, and then die?
Ah, of course, we can make love, children, we can sing, create, improve the fate of the world, we can live our lives properly, like any self-respecting mortal. However, this does not seem to be the norm. Why do so many people fail? Why so much crying and stress? Why the dictatorial hugs of the bosses, the pimping smiles of the politicians?
Beautiful intentions seem to hide the uncompromising desire for the survival of the best, from the virus to the bacteria, from the bacteria to the multiple manifestations of life, from species to planets, from suns to galaxies, then from constellations to multidimensional bubbles, the race does not stop. Our choices, our victories, and our little monkey deeds do not move the stars. What do this movement and the gears of this labyrinthine clock represent?
We fix all this by believing in one or more gods, hope or philosophies? It’s a bit like this cleaning that doesn’t happen in my house, this existence that goes a little, a lot, poetically adrift. It’s all right, madame la Marquise. Let’s sweep up the broom, hide death under the carpet
The sun is so good on my face.