The year is 5027 - The day is tomorrow - I do not know where I am, but I am here now.
Turn around - Take a look.
Can you see me? Can you hear the rumble of my voice? Can you feel my presence?
Because whether or not you can, I am here. I am there.
- Absent everywhere -
Le silence terne d’une vie dénuée, la peur de vivre, la peur de se lever.
La recherche d’un sens qui encore doit venir, pour que ce jour enfin puisse finir.
Finir la journée comme l’on finit la vie, pleine d'expérience que trop vite, l’on oublie.
Si je pouvais profiter de toutes ces p'tites choses, les voir, les vivres, pouvoir faire ‘pause’
Et qu’enfin le silence d’une nuit sans rêves me laisse reposer le temps d’une trêve
Que la rime m’abandonne je n’en ai que faire
Je suis tout à fait perdu je devrais donc me taire
Le temps du silence est maintenant fini.
Je suis prêt d’embarquer pour que l’on fasse du bruit
Encore un jour encore une douleur
Tout ce que je desire c’est un peu de douceur,
De celle qui nous touche et qui fait de la vie
De celle qu’on partage l’instant d’une nuit
Une nuit de silence et de folle passion
Celle qui nous hante et nous ôte toute raison.
Le battement sourd de la tempête de mon être
L’affolement serein de la volonté juste d'être
Sous la couette, le casque sur les oreilles
Doucement, doucement mon être s’en-sommeille
Oubliant, ignorant l’orage là, dehors,
C’est ça doucement, tranquille je m’endors...
Mais dans la dance saccadée d’un sommeil perturbé
La rage me rattrape, l’envie de hurler
Morphée me renvoie dans le tumulte de la vie
La tempête me rattrape me frappe, me nuits
Je veux fuir mais vers où?
Where are we?
You and I, right now, where are we? In your room? In mine? I am not sure this is a room. I am not sure I ever was in a room.
But I am here, with you. You are reading me and I can see you, I can feel you. I am reaching out to you. Looking for that thread. Delicate thread - Fragile -
- Imagine -
There’s an explosion.
It’s about to happen.
You can see it happen, there in front of you, as if you weren't part of it.
It hasn’t happened.
You want it to happen.
You dread the moment it will.
It’s there, in front of you, you watch it happen, do you take part?
It’s like a glass of red wine, delicate liquid held in a delicate glass, by a delicate hand, cherished.
Years to grow the right grape, to age it correctly, knowledge to assemble it, centuries, millenniums
to make the right taste, the right balance: the perfect balance.
Equilibrium.
From the scent to the lips down the throat it flows, opening doors, feelings, tastes and flavours. Care and attention.
The thought goes further. To the hand that tended the grape to the one that picked it and then to the one holding the glass folded over it by centuries of another knowledge. Blowing the glass finding the shape.
That hand holding the glass in that precise moment, in that instant even, lets go.
Lets it go.
Stop - Time stops, the hand stops. And you watch every muscle in that hand. Every muscle in that body. Tension. Release. Intension. Action. Inaction. The body stops acting, stops fighting to let go and give in. The body (or at least part of it) gives into gravity; gives into to you, lets the glass go.
And there is only one way for this glass (of knowledge), this glass of beauty, this glass of blood, this glass of life to go - and that is downwards.
And you see it, as if in slow motion, and your whole being tenses up as if to try and catch it, as if to save it.
But you know you can’t, you don’t even know if you want to.
And it falls, endlessly through space and time into non-being, rotating without a single drop of the blood-like liquid spilling until, unmistakably, it hits.
It hits and smashes and everything speeds up and it’s horrible, as if all the speed you’d been blind to had condensed itself into this last microsecond and the violence of the contact between the glass
and the earth,
between the object and gravity, between you and the centre of the earth, between Love and non-Love, between Eros and Thanatos. Between you and me. That violence is unbearable.
Inhuman.
And again, although you know it’s your mind at work, the shattering is slowed down, muted,
So slow you could nearly count the countless billions of particles being separated. All the bits that used to constitute it and then you understand. You understand the power of nuclear explosion and it’s horrible - beautiful.
Beauty in this instant is equal to chaos. Chaos to life. Life to death. Balance.
Equilibrium.
And it speeds up again, as the liquid spreads and marks its own space and you are left with nothing
but a stain.
A stain of blood and gold. Life and death as if they were two separate things and my pen
cannot keep up with your thought, only with your feeling, and your feeling is that this whole
journey is about to explode or implode or even just shatter and then you realise. You realise you are
both the hand and the body and the brain that decides consciously or not to let go and in the same time, you are the glass and the liquid that will only leave a stain as big as the wine spreads and then you stop.
And you think you must also be the watcher.
And all you want to do is cry. For within that moment you realise the beauty of it all, how we all are all those things, all inter-connected, sharers of only one thing, present. The present, a gift above time. And you now know that loneliness does not exist, only a blindness to others. And you decide to learn to see differently, through silence, patience, love, peace. And you know the struggle is hard but within the journey resides the joy.
So.
Am I here?
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