This is what Trauma feels like: entering the now as if it were hell, wishing for the world to be real again. What is this hell? It is “living-missingly” or “living-troubled.” Not being tuned correctly – harmoniously – with the real as much as with ourselves, thinking (believing? No – knowing) it is not right. It has changed. It has all changed somehow. The frames are not right, the chairs more crooked than before – all of this despite all the science and rationality available. The now is not experienced as it had to be. (1) Everything is unforgiving: our mind, other people, time, and life in general. What’s more unforgiving is forgiving itself: it has lost its initial meaning. Forgiving oneself for what happened does not reset the clock no matter what. It happened: The bomb detonated – she died – he was in the crowd when the bodies fell on the ground. (2) Trauma is permanent and the only thing for which reassurance and support has a limit. It is a mental tattoo. No amount of emotional distance will make us go back in time and prevent the unforgiving. It’s mental rape. Though we may find comfort over time and attempt to re-serialize our memories (3) to tune ourselves harmoniously back with time and space, the off-putting feeling evinced by what is real remains continuously. The French have the word “fatalité” to beautifully describe the unforgiving characteristic of time, but Trauma knows no language. It knows nothing but to rape us of our intellectual and physical capabilities. It can be everywhere and inside everything, and for this reason it does not even know itself. I am not the hero of my own self for staying a-live and resisting against my struggles. I am the observing participant astonished by the powerful ways of life. We all lose at staying a-live because we will die no matter what. Only those traumatized seem to lose faster than others. It is impossible to win against the sinking feeling that succeeds the acknowledgement that “it won’t be as before – it won’t be as before – it won’t be as before – it won’t be as before – it won’t be” and repeat ad infinitum. It will be different: A new sun, a new face, a new voice with new thoughts. A new house and a new gun. A new car and a new mother. It’s another birth: an illegitimate mental birth resulting from the rape. How will you do? That is coping. Coping is beyond Heideggerian ontology and traditional metaphysics. It is way further than easy existentialism. You are born in a fearful world now. You enter hell as you left what you now think was heaven, and the saddest truth remaining is that only you can grant your wish to make the real real again.


1. Notice how we cannot even say “as it should be” or “as it should have been.” All understanding of objectivity gets lost in Trauma. Real justice becomes subjective, which is why the now had to be experienced this way – but it did not.

2. Reference to the Paris Terrorist Attack at the Bataclan on November 13th 2015.

3. In Hussel’s way: See his Vorlesungen zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewusstseins (Lectures on Phenomenology of Time-Consciousness) and The Time of Trauma: Husserl’s Phenomenology and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder by Mary Jeanne Larrabee.

Speaking About Death

PDF available here.

Do we live to die? Asking this question supposes that the limitations of an experience (life and the ending of it) define its purpose. In this case, the purpose of life is to be over, or so many nihilists would say. It can’t be right for the reason alone that life’s determination is not fixed. I could die anytime, and because I did not die now means that my life did not have the purpose to be over right now. My life’s purpose is always pushed further, defeating the meaning of the now – of the complete experience up to now. It seems the lack of a definite timeline set for the end of my life contributes endlessly to the contradiction of its purpose. I have lived until now and yet I am not dead: What can I make of this fact in terms of sense and meaning? Moreover, death is never yet. How could I give purpose to something fictional that is never real in the now? I should then put death in the category of all the unsubstantiated things in terms of time: things that can be conceptualized but whose concepts cannot relate directly to their substantiality as of now. What is the purpose of things that don’t exist in the now yet? It seems that their only purpose, in relation to their current ontological status, is to become be-ing (1) , to manifest themselves from a now moment to another one. The purpose of death is to be, but it vanishes every time it brings itself into being. Death tries infinitely to engage in the now but it can’t do so, and this is because the act of living fills the entirety of time. As Merleau-Ponty said, time is full of being. (2) Death is ungraspable because it has no possibility to give perspective. We represent death as an “other side” because it is so unrelated and impossible to locate within life. Living is perspectival. Our understanding of objectivity and subjectivity requires spatiality because we think of perspective through space. One needs to be aware of a separation between a here and an out there to compose the difference between their eyes and someone else’s. In this sense, objectivity requires subjectivity in order to be known, and vice-versa, for without one we could not know the other. Apperception, which is thinking in its most essential form, is what allows Kant to say that there is a perspective other than his own, and apperception in itself is a perspective; it’s a funnel directed towards one thing, or one thought, and moves from one to another. (3) Death can be neither objective nor subjective because it is devoid of spatiality, of time, and of tools for perception – including the possibility of perspective itself. We cannot perceive death because it does not provide anything to perceive, and death provides nothing to perceive because it has no access to being through time. To see a corpse being active and responding to stimuli, and suddenly it stops being as such and drops numb on the ground: this is probably the biggest problem that gave rise to thinking – or at least to thinking of time. We witness the unknown without itself. It’s as if we were in a box seeing the sides being pushed concavely from outside. Death pushes on-to Being to get inside of it, but this is to no avail. However, this analogy doesn’t quite grasp the reality of death because it rests on the notion of space – of which death doesn’t have any. In fact there is no reality for death. Our reality is that sometimes, unpredictably, animals and humans stop moving for as long as we have yet to live, and I say “yet” because we can’t say forever: who knows if my deceased grandfather will walk again when I’m dead? A dead body has absolutely nothing. What do you mean “he’s dead”? He’s gone. But where? He’s gone nowhere. He’s gone nowhere because the notion of perspective is only unique to being a-live. Without space, and thus without perspective, there is nowhere else to go. As Bergson explained so well in Matter and Memory, the soul cannot go anywhere else because if it did then we would be attributing it a spatial meaning, resulting in equating the soul to be a body – even though the entire mind-body problem considers the mind as non-corporeal object. (4) What is death then? It’s the shocking call of a boundary that has yet to be now. It’s a limit unannounced. It escapes us as much, if not more, as the thought of our own nonexistence. I cannot dissociate the “I think” of Kant from my representations: hence imagining a life of others with me being dead is actually still including me in it and this imaginative act would be inaccurate. Language itself can’t even grasp what death is because death is not “out” of life since it has no spatial feature. What about time? Yes, death is a boundary in time that does not exist as of now. The ending of my time is not even death itself. Death is the absence of my time, but the presence of my causation for others. Leaving an object unattended for someone else, posing a ticking bomb in a supermarket in the Middle-East, or the Warsaw Uprising of 1944 as an act of protest that’s left to others to understand: these are manifestations of causes that supersede our living, and somehow other people see us through these. (5) As Bergson demonstrated in Time and Free Will, moments in time last through a process of durée, and somehow they stretch from a now to another, always by-passing other nows. We might then consider the real death to be the one that never existed in the first place. Those who are not remembered and whose keepsakes and effects upon the world have been lost forever, so much that we can even say they were never born in the first place: those are the real dead. But again, this is the sort of death that is manifested from the inside of a reality. What I can see, and what I can speculate about, is only from within my own time. I cannot know what comes after I’ve opened my eyes for the last time.

However, we need to keep Hegel in mind: “Seeing the limit as limit means it has already been surpassed.” (6) Death, therefore, cannot be surpassed. The absence of time, for me, is unthinkable because it is the presence of time for others, one would argue. We then fall back into our problem of perspective: death is beyond subjectivity and objectivity. We only encounter a body being numb and heavy on the floor, and the deceased person remains forever in memory: his or her voice cannot be heard in a way that is given and forced upon us as it was in everyday life. This will never happen again. They no longer force themselves into my life, my consciousness, and now I have to willfully recall how they sounded like in order to “hear” them again: What should I make of this factual difference in time? In times of grief we may ask: Where are they? I would be lying if I said they were in time, because time has no spatiality, and I am also forced to say they are not somewhere else. Furthermore, there has never been a case of a patient for which all the health settings were fine and yet they died anyway. Likewise for the opposite case: when something fails in the body, it will always stop being alive. If I could walk without a heart and if my grandfather could speak without a brain, our attachment to time, which is translated through our understanding of what is given to us, whether we are conscious of it or not, would be very different. Witnessing that he or she has no future in the realm of what is given to me is another traumatic shock caused from the strength and hardness of time itself. This is, in my opinion, where thinking originates: a progression of an increasing number of differences in time appeared to us, we somehow began to notice and to become aware of these differing appearances in time, and thoughts started to emerge as a result of this slow progressive act of differentiating between the now and then.

How shall we speak of death, then, if it is not accessible through our perspectival apparatus of thinking? I would argue that we are simply left with a wonder that is unsolvable for the sake of other wonders. The one thing of which we cannot think about and speak about is what allows us to speak and think of everything else. (7) Death, as being a moment of unperceivable limiting absence, shock, and wonder, becomes the intellectual starting-point for thinking and for the Platonist use of λόγος (logos). Heidegger’s opening to ontology: “Why are there beings rather than nothing?” (8) Camus’ worry about suicide, whether we should jump ship now instead of later, and, of course, Socrates’ dramatic departure for the unspeakable of, leaving us the unsolvable mystery of why he did so. These instances all show nothing more than the human attitude in its original form. (9) Bodies falling on the ground and parents who never wake up anymore: They remind us that we are perspectival beings and that every practice of philosophical thinking is in one way or another related to this reminder. Why is it easier to say “I know I will die” rather than “I think I will die”? What is Kierkegaard getting at when he notices that we do not instinctively think about our own death? These questions inevitably lead us to noticing that death escapes λόγος by nature – if only death had a nature! Death is not perspectival; death cannot be tied to the ground as Plato intended the act of λόγος to do. (10) I must conclude, for now, that to speak of death it should be necessary to know how to not address this “it” to which it is impossible to refer. If anything, perhaps we must die, when the moment is appropriate, as it has been shown that as definite and limited beings as we can be, we too can be full of perspective and that, perhaps, there is a limit to what objectivity and subjectivity permit. We will see the loved ones and the extras lying down in a coffin and we will turn their bodies into ashes or make them “one” with the earth by burying them. However, we must keep in mind that the meanings we give them as soon as they can no longer respond to pain and to us are nothing but a misattribution. We cannot speak of death properly, and we cannot give it meaning as a result of this. We must simply give ourselves to time itself.


(1) “De l’étant” in French

(2) Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phénoménologie de la perception. p.471 : « Si le monde objectif est incapable de porter le temps, ce n’est pas qu’il soit en quelque sorte trop étroit, que nous ayons à y ajouter un pan de passé et un pan d’avenir. Le passé et l’avenir n’existent que trop dans le monde, ils existent au présent, et ce qui manque à l’être lui-même pour être temporel, c’est le non-être de l’ailleurs, de l’autrefois et du demains. Le monde objectif est trop plein pour qu’il y ait du temps. Le passé et l’avenir, d’eux-mêmes, se retirent de l’être et passent du côté de la subjectivité pour y chercher, non pas quelque support réel, mais, au contraire, une possibilité de non-être qui s’accorde avec leur nature. Si l’on détache le monde objectif des perspectives finies qui ouvrent sur lui et qu’on le pose en soi, on ne peut y trouver de toutes parts que des « maintenants ».

(3) We see here Husserl’s starting point for the notion of intentionality.

(4) Bergson, Henri. Matière et mémoire. Sections « Introduction » and « De la sélection des images pour la représentation. Le rôle du corps. »

(5) I am referring here to the matter of people feeling the presence of someone who died when they find objects that belonged to them. PTSD is another example of causation superseding an event.

(6) Luft, Sebastian. “Husserl’s Phenomenological Discovery of the Natural Attitude.” Published in Subjectivity and Lifeworld in Transcendental Phenomenology. p. 38

(7) For all we know there could be other things impossible to talk about, such as death, as absence of time, before birth. What language cannot define, it allows it to define other things.

(8) First question Heidegger addresses in a lecture given in 1935, published in Introduction to Metaphysics (Yale University Press)

(9) And perhaps this is the difference between humans and animals.

(10) See Plato’s Meno. Meno suggests logos (λόγος) as an act of “tying down” a thought or a truth to the ground so that it would not escape the soul of whoever talks about it. To give account of something is to attach this “something” to a ground so that we don’t search forever what it means or what it is.

I’d like someone to be somewhere waiting for me,
Someone with something somewhere to see,
All white flakes dropping so aimlessly,
It’s all for me – it’s all for me.

Someone somewhere someday to be,
A laughing-stock, a staking-jock,
A dearly mate in times of loss,
A greater hate for when we cross.

It’s all for me, it’s all to be,
Someone someday somewhere to see
Me being poor and on all four,
It’s all for me – someone lovely.

To Ms. Emily Dickinson

L’attente est une douleur vissée en biseau au travers de mon corps. Elle me donne la peur la plus intense. Celle-ci parcourt mes pieds jusqu’à mes vertèbres et s’enlace autour de mon crâne. Espérer la venue de quelqu’un me rend nerveux, tendu. Tendu d’être en tors ou en raison, attendre pour de bon ou pour un mal, que ce soit pendant un court instant ou pour une longue éternité; voilà quelques exemples des multiples métamorphoses de cette sensation gênante. J’attends des gens sans avoir l’exacte idée de qui il s’agit. J’attends par amour avec l’espoir qu’ils auraient fait de même pour moi. Je suis cardiaque et pourtant mon cœur pompe en triolets. Quel impuissant suis-je face à la vie pure ! J’ai une idée, je me lance, et je sens malgré tout une foudre m’arracher à mon corps. Si violente est la vie, si aggressives sont les pensées spontanées ! Tout se déroule à la vitesse du vent – si encore souffle-t-il du même côté de mon élan – et je me décide à m’adapter à la vivacité existentielle et soudaine de mon envie. Garçon, servez moi un autre verre. Je vais esquiver le coup suivant.

30 septembre 2012, édité.

Tu dois hurler dans un dialecte qui ne peut résonner qu’au milieu d’un paysage sauvage. Tes doigts s’agrippent aux barreaux du lit tandis que tes pieds s’étirent de toutes leurs forces. Crie de douleur sur ce dessein qui t’es attribué, laisse ruisseler sur tes pommettes le flot d’un malheur continu à la fois démesuré et sans présages. Au plus haut de ta souffrance, à peine as-tu atteint son pic, sans patience ni espoir pour atténuer cette névrose vicérale, tu verras devant tes yeux apparaître une figure éphémère qui t’enseignera ton tout dernier ressort. Après quelques temps de réflexion avec ou sans rationalité sur cette nouvelle hypnose biblique, tu finiras par écouter les paroles de tes proches, et de ton néant existentiel surgira la croyance qu’un jour le soleil s’élèvera au-dessus de ton corps dans un silence de mort, apportant avec lui l’harmonie autre fois subjuguée par la cause de ta folie romanesque. Il t’importe peu de savoir si cette prophétie philosophique s’accomplira tant et aussi longtemps qu’elle donne à ton âme le droit de prolonger sa danse mystique. C’est ainsi que les revirements et tous les autres délires du cœur s’émancipent dans un calme de tempête : d’un corps à un autre, d’un prénom au suivant, sans l’ombre d’un détour vers l’arrière et sous la pression insipide des pendules qui nous poussent à « continuer aveuglément. »

Aux nuages éphémères qui se hissent si haut,
Dont la blancheur illumine le trouble des eaux,
Valsent sous des formes apaisantes,
D’une bourrasque à une autre, d’une voile à une autre,
En une scène théâtrale innocente.
Ils s’évaporent aussi vite,
Que chaque souci des marins perdus.

Stage-struck – The eyes are opened, and they fill this room with a glow that brings a weal on its own. The mouth leans forward to let the lips make a few vertical majestic moves coupled with some gracious gesticulations from the other limbs. I’m standing here, staying still as a stone, on a stage filled with cracking noises coming from the wooden planks getting older through invisible time. I inhale, and then I start to deliver a thread of words supposedly coming from my heart. My tongue is shaking through the sounds of order, the bursts of revolutions and the sumptuous compliments I give to the ladies in the first row. One motion after the other, I walk across the stage at different speeds like Don Juan. From stage left to right, I become what I’ve never been. I lose all knowledge of my identity above the curtains and under the acute surveillance of a hundred faces stricken by my presence. They know who I am. They can tell what I’m like even though I don’t have the means to do it anymore. A single step forward is enough to get rid of every notion of soul and meaning. Next, another shout mimicked with my hand goes on to lose itself in the middle of some theatrical fight, and forgets itself amidst the ruins of an existential collapse. My body stands here, as my mind becomes subjugated by that of another. I learn how to live through becoming this other. I take on the ownership of his words and his spontaneous diction, so much it becomes a metaphysical surgery. And now I’m sitting down on the edge of the stand as a man enjoying the last breath of his youth. I’m waiting. I’m waiting for the souls in the audience to capsize on their seats all the way to the back of the theater. I’m waiting for a rain of emotions to flood their faces one after the other in between the triggering silences of the play. Only when the end gets closer in time do I take hold of myself again. My physical exhaustion makes me happier about the real world. Time slows down and I suddenly perceive more easily this other stage on which I keep living all the time. It only took me a few hours of adopting a seemingly fictional life to find back some adoration for my own. To act is nothing but the action of enjoying one’s the body and the versatility of their soul.

This is a translation of the original French text Sur les planches.

I

Life is mere disappointment when the clocks keep ticking and the sun goes high. Always bring around the bad news on a sunny day, for its receiver will have a nice weather as a consolation. “At least it’s nice outside” the shopkeeper says, as if the vanishing of a cloud weighs better than a verbally announced tragedy. How ironic is it that the star which enlightens the deceived on the source of their suffering is the same one that lights up their world. True things hurt: they make a man shake with as much resonance as a baby’s throat playing disastrous chords from the moment it exits the womb. Do you hear the wind breathing through the maple trees? Its vernal freshness comes caressing your rosy cheeks as you ponder on what it is that makes you generous to others. No one needs to know their own limitations, yet this is what every being seems to strive for. Would you crave to know where the line stands between your strength and its negation? Think of how it would affect your sense of self to know fully well the place you hold on a map, rather than being amusingly tortured by the deprivation of this knowledge. Tell me, dear inquirer of your own borders, who is the son when his mother knows the horizon of his life? Where goes the heart when the blood remains stagnant? Why should the kingdom of your desires be stopped by some border when doubt and nothingness can be the meekly comfort in the depth of your failures? To hell with curiosity, to hell with certainty! Pray for the clocks to keep ticking a second once more after the other ’til heaven never comes down to Earth.

II

We shall hear the silences of the heart rather than its beats. The noise is constant and it promises to come back to one’s ears. Listen to how this quiet void tells the true nature of one’s thoughts. Listen inside your chest to what does not come about. Shut your sight and feel this emptiness yearning to be unheard. Although your whole being is known by the fences that guard it, the peaceful quietness of your heart shall reveal everything but your essence. By knowing this Nothingness that negates who you are, you discover the nature that shapes your very own soul.

III

Where comes about the world that implodes on itself? Hold on to sweet announcements they bring to your ears and have your lips be drenched from their anticipated reality! Wait in line to watch a truth unfold, and have your hands cut off from the unknown. Have them give up rocks and wooden sticks in exchange for tools specially made for you. Be the monkey of your Man, be his laughing-stock! For he holds a void more useful to life than any of your tools can do. Hammers and sickles are nothing but pointless fuss when a single one of us could exist for us all.

When the doves cease their whistling,
And their wings cut by the blooded pitchforks,
Only then, will you hear the sound of my voice,
Screaming for you to give me a hand,
Urging you to put a kiss on my forehead,
Only then, will the world know how I truly loved you.

Jusqu’où iront les pathologistes de notre corps collectif ? Où se dessinera en fin l’horizon de nos maux sociétaux par lesquels l’existence humaine s’est définie ? La foule semble s’être enclenchée dans un mouvement de va-et-vient intellectuel dont nul ne saurait dire si celui-ci est aléatoire ou chorégraphié. Que sais-je des enjeux dits « cruciaux » sur la question des sexes, puisqu’il m’importe uniquement d’avoir à mon bras mon complément romantique autant inconnu du monde qu’il m’est connu à moi-même. Que n’ai-je à faire des gémissements du peuple sur sa santé morale, alors que lui-même ne peut être que son seul et unique médecin. Les arbres ont un jour dominé en hauteur sur les hommes, puis à ce jour ce sont eux qui les surplombent à présent. L’humanité semble elle-même se fixer un coût pour s’être donnée le privilège de passer d’une technicité romantique à celle d’un type dit « technologique. » D’une manière qui m’est vaguement inconnue, je parviens à miroiter mon existence parmi les créatures rationnelles pour entrevoir les contours de mon ombre à la fois substantielle et incorporelle, et que vois-je ? De la perte, de l’angoisse, de la dérision amoureuse dans un monde qui ne demande qu’à se détester de lui-même et des plantes.

« Un monde absurde. » Voilà une des plus terribles maladies diagnostiquées sur ce ramassis d’êtres bipèdes à la peau douce et à l’esprit rugueux. J’ai choisi ce cancer comme pathologie collective pour comprendre ce dans quoi je suis forcé de nager jusqu’à en mourir. J’aime dans un monde absurde. Je suis aimant dans un monde qui ne m’offre pas de manière déterministe un amour muni de sens. Il est de mon devoir de romantiser le monde pour faire en sorte que ce qui m’apparaît comme étant un « vide de sens » devienne ni vide, ni plein.

 

N. L.


 

Il s’agit d’un premier brouillon d’un nouvel aphorisme que je suis entrain d’écrire. J’ai emprunté le titre à Novalis afin d’offrir la thèse que l’amour serait la solution pour tisser de nouveau un lien avec l’Être et faire face à tout l’absurde que le monde actuel possède.

 

“Jusqu’où iront les pathologistes de notre corps collectif ? Où se dessinera en fin l’horizon de nos maux sociétaux par lesquels l’existence humaine s’est définie ?”

Il ne faut plus chercher loin pour définir ce qu’est une société, un peuple, une nation, ou l’espèce humaine en général. La définition se donne a priori dès lors qu’une nouvelle crise identitaire se pointe à nos porte, dès lors qu’un nouvel enjeux ou qu’une nouvelle problématique sensée invoquer tout le monde soit d’un côté soit d’un autre. Toutes les problématiques actuelles auxquelles nous faisons face contre notre gré sont ce qui définit la société occidentale (car dans tout ce que je dis, je ne m’addresse uniquement qu’à la société occidentale). Le “corps collectif” réfère à la société occidentale, et “l’horizon de nos maux sociétaux” à la limite des problématiques qui nous sont imposées par tous les dénonciateurs et les révoltés. Au-delà de tout ce tumulte politique et sociologique qui fait vibrer l’Occident jour et nuit se trouve une autre définition de l’être humain.

“Que sais-je des enjeux dits « cruciaux » sur la question des sexes, puisqu’il m’importe uniquement d’avoir à mon bras mon complément romantique autant inconnu du monde qu’il m’est connu à moi-même.”

Ma position par rapport au féminisme, à la question des genres, etc. se définit de part mon état amoureux. Ma considération par rapport à ces enjeux est adaptée à mon état en tant qu’être aimant.

 

“Que n’ai-je à faire des gémissements du peuple sur sa santé morale, alors que lui-même ne peut être que son seul et unique médecin.”

Beaucoup se plaignent de la situation de la société alors qu’eux-mêmes en sont à la fois la cause et le remède.

 

“L’humanité semble elle-même se fixer un coût pour s’être donnée le privilège de passer d’une technicité romantique à celle d’un type dit « technologique. »”

Référence à l’essai de Martin Heidegger sur la question de la technique. La technicité romantique veut dire la technê en tant que “bringing-forth”, et la technicité technologique réfère au concept de technê en tant que “challenging-forth”.

I

Aux nuages éphémères qui se hissent si haut,
Dont la blancheur illumine le trouble des eaux,
Valsent sous des formes apaisantes,
En une scène théâtrale innocente.
Ils s’évaporent aussi vite,
Que chaque souci des marins perdus.

II

« C’est ainsi que les revirements et tous les autres délires du cœur s’émancipent dans un calme d’après tempête : d’un corps à un autre, d’un prénom au suivant, sans l’ombre d’un détour vers l’arrière et sous la pression invisible des pendules qui nous poussent à « continuer aveuglément. »

III

« Elle devient un autre et je m’efforce de l’en empêcher. Je tente de toutes mes forces d’aller à l’encontre de ce dessein dans l’espoir qu’elle ne devienne pas une poupée de joie parmi les jouets de ma connaissance. »

IV

« Jadis nous étions faits l’un pour l’autre. Aujourd’hui nous nous sommes défaits l’un de l’autre. »

V

« J’ai connu trop d’hommes dont l’unique source de bonheur fût leur attachement envers une âme autre que la leur. »

VI

« Là où la foudre ne frappe jamais deux fois, l’amour se tient d’y étinceler. Au contraire du premier, l’amour, lui, frappe toujours deux fois au même endroit: lorsqu’il nait et lorsqu’il disparaît. Voilà toute la nuance du coup de foudre. »

I

You removed from your life this man who knew not what he had done. He tried to capture an ounce of wisdom with his bare hands and he had failed lamentably in front of your blue gazing eyes. He feels sorry for his own pain and yours. “It’s been a rough week” you said, and oh how I had wished he could have been by your side. He owes you books and bits of wisdom that you had picked from your own tree, then placed lovingly in his hair and between his fingers. After all he is a man not so simple who, day by day, becomes more remorseful over what he is offered by this life and yourself: a delightful past much too gone.

II

The tongue is so useless when you think it would be of no use if we ran into each other on the street. Words were tremendously meaningful when we first acknowledged each other. Once you forgot my name and turned your ears away from my sounds, I could not help but become a blank book whose last remaining bit of hope is enacted by blindly asking to be read one more time.

The Popular Illness – So many men knocked on my door moaning over the pains they used to have. “I was ill, one of them said, I remember it very well! O how sick I used to be! Sick of this and that, of everything and nothing! Have I been struck by life’s ordinariness? It doesn’t matter, for I was ill and I remember it.” Today still, I cannot help but watch humanity soak itself into the sufferings long gone and the pains that it has yet to discover. Here I am, living in the Occidental world, the land on which one needs to suffer in order to exist. My blood boils when the words “rights” and “progress” get echoed from the young blokes’ lips. These are no more of a cure, but a new way of celebrating each and every symptom of the next societal plague instead. Rather than being doctors, the philosophers have become mere paramedics of morality. All around me, my brethren and my peers have replaced the words with groans and screams. Agonizing does not emerge from human nature anymore. It is instantaneously created as soon as a glimpse of guilt appears on each and every street corner. And when this scourge, tortured itself by the screams of its victims, begins to vanish from the surface of the Earth, no one else is pained by its disappearance. One may believe that happiness and peace only come back on Mankind’s doorstep in silence, despite our voices so loud and powerful.

About The Supremacy of Love – What are the oppressors doing to the dearest ideas of ours? They hammer these marble blocs, strive themselves like vultures toward the modern values, all of which will go down sooner or later in the history books. We ended here, in the middle of these utopic constructions subdued by a foolproof fear, with no kiss to alleviate ourselves and no words to hear each other. I feel you feverish and shaking in front of these newly improvised martyrs who scream at the top of their lungs, all of this despite your beaming look and gleeful stance. The sky sprinkled with grey clouds oversees the dancing of my eyes all over your hands, your face, and your smile so young, yet bleeding from the surreal atrocities of the world. “Absurd” is the word you slipped into my ear as you echoed your disgust in front of this sadistic delirium. So I remove myself from the sternness of this place and I grab my cynical coat hoping it would save you from your humanitarian revulsion and welcome you inside my arms, and among my fictional comfort. Hand in hand, we dodge the seriousness of every face and the astonishment of these living corpses in order to run away on this road made of clay towards this marble column – the only one that keeps resisting against the gunshots, hammers, and sickles. Each body’s love betrays the ideals of the world and reminds us the uselessness of each and every kind of belief. We are both stricken by deadly philosophical bullets as well as by traumatic and distanced dreads. Even though you think differently than me, I love you, and I couldn’t say why.

“Tell me, O wisest Bear of them all,
Hast thou found back the honey that was lost at once?
Did the yellow-stripped creatures crown you
With a better offering from this forest?”

And the hairy beast answered:

“None of this is what reconciliates me with the seasons.
I may dream of Australian lands and hide from the coldest winds,
But truth is, I simply took hold of my eyes,
And came back on the paved road where I left it.

I once met a magician of the soul,
Who could make virtues appear in her eyes,
Like dancing sea waves.

She would smile at the rain,
And have a laugh when in vain,
Nature does once too much pain.

She then left my world as she entered it,
In a profound silence between the flicking of books
and the scratching of pens on pages.

Never had I recovered from this devastating loss,
Until she reappeared before me,
With the cure to my dystopian dreams.

I look at the trees today and thank them,
For the shadows they provided me,
When I was blinded by her tricks and charms.

I walk on this earth today,
Knowing fate’s absurd being,
Is no more than a mere child’s play.

Quand, d’un pas ferme celui-ci danse,
Que d’une pointe à l’autre il s’élance,
Qu’un pied frétille sur le rebond,
Puis le second s’éffondre sur le même ton.

Que d’une grâce quelconque ses bras prennent vie,
S’entremêlent sous des joies infinies,
Et se séparent sans encombre maudite,
Et se rassemblent sans raison ni réplique.

Le voici qui de ses mains charme les saintes,
Celles qui contre tous défont les plaintes,
Celles qui à leur tour le séduisent bien,
Le revoici dansant sur son dessein.