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The abracadabra of life

Daz­zling, the truth is lost in the for­est of my hands. Its shad­ow falls, grows heav­ier and wors­ens my pace. My eyes, more than cal­ci­fied, locked them­selves in their cup­board, obsessed by the bore­al traces of their dis­cov­er­ies. The answers hang upside down from the ceil­ing of a cav­ernous cathe­dral. At night­fall, they come out of their den to hunt the hypotheses.

My dreams are made so that they foment my sleep and offer me het­ero­ge­neous gram­mar and syn­tax. Like dol­phins, they kill the Uncon­scious until they trig­ger its anger.

Then the truth los­es its means. She lets her­self be clothed by mem­o­ries, the sum of her kar­ma. It becomes jokes, lies, dis­guis­es, dec­o­ra­tions and tin­sel, no doubt proud of not belong­ing to any­one, cer­tain­ly not to me, because I only age by singing.

I live only by crush­es on the anvil of my des­tiny. No morn­ing, no twi­light suc­ceeds in chain­ing cer­tain­ties. Any truth is not good to say since, in any case, we do not know how to cap­ture this. Our wings are dis­solv­ing. Our waxed gazes, stuffed with tat­tered spec­ta­cles, van­ish in light and hope.

What is this cir­cus for, apart from enter­tain­ing us ? Who decid­ed on this per­ilous path that leads us indi­vid­u­al­ly to silence ? Is it a fall or an ascent ?

The clos­er I get to the sun, the more my shad­ow pulls me towards the earth. Each spilled ink bleeds my delir­i­um. I am just that, an enti­ty, a spark or a quiver of air.

The abra­cadabra of life departs eas­i­ly from its spec­ta­tors with­out the dance ever ceas­ing. What could I offer to taste you, immo­bi­lize you ? Does my won­der guar­an­tee my sal­va­tion ? Can you hear me ?

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