The time that hurts us — 2021/08/22
It’s like time has hurt me, I tell you. Or maybe it’s just the heat that weighs down my days. I find myself endlessly watching the clouds. If they are only moving, they end up coming back to the same shapes, puffed up like foam. Sometimes the sky is clear, occasionally grey, like a tornado, but the cumulus clouds take over at the slightest opportunity.
The cycle and the year — 2021/03/07
I was recently asked how I perceived a year. It was a game told by a colleague who had entertained her family and friends. There were four or five of us who answered, and the answers were very varied. Some see the year as just boxes in a calendar; others see it as a path, a horizon. My response was honestly circumspect: I don’t see it.
The spiralling time — 2020/10/11
Yesterday, while cleaning the basement, I came across a box containing a few photos, most of them framed, that had been sitting in old apartments for a while. The box had not been opened for twelve years.
Each of our mornings — 2019/08/11
Time may be, at the end of the day, just a long corridor immobilized in the matter, a train with no head or tail. The matter is slower than our humble steps. We run, dance, frolic, having no echoes but this silence higher than our natures, more immense than our hopes, just as profound as our ignorance.
With time — 2018/03/10
With time, the poet sang, everything goes away. It is true that everything seems to point towards a horizon that we never reach. Life goes, the pain goes, the joys do not remain anymore in place. In the heart of the Earth is simmering a hell of plasma that sometimes splashes us with volcanic smiles and burns our skin.
Those difficult times — 2016/07/23
The fan, on the ceiling, turbine at the bottom. A techno-soft music seems to feed it. Outside, the storm is roaring. It is the second one of the day in as many hours... The sky is getting darker. Soon it will rain another deluge.
Supreme Soviet — 2012/01/27
My country no longer seems to be this winter that the poet was loudly proclaiming, at least not in the metropolis. It's still raining, and the snow can't resist.