In short, rather the memory of one of these moments suspended than an absence where you remember a past spent in pairs that had no future, that knew no fear or bounds. Just you and me in the silence as if we were born to start a revolution, as an alternative to death, lasting 365 days from this same placenta made of peripheral concrete. But nostalgia saves no one from the additional imperfection that makes handcuffed strangers out of us. And yet, at this point of my endless narration, again and again I must pretend just like you to save what is left of our museum, but without knowing why.
In the end the tax return form is of no importance, childhood always takes us back to the time of the first scrapes, internal struggles, mysterious fears of darkness, of monsters, of the end and that long shadow that chases after us right at our heels. Apart from that, it’s a long path, directionless and psychotropes, phoney over-the-counter medecine. Life is a placebo that is well worth all of its illnesses. So as not to make the most out of the present, together. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just to hear cries of joy around you. And what if there was no one there?
All you can do is fill up this emptiness, a battle worthy of that word that deserves a block calendar and even a part-time mother. Bit by bit, little by little, piece by piece, you evaluate the situation, make links, consider the pros and the cons. All that counts is the function of the rhythm and the kind of mechanism. There is nothing beautiful, perfect, ideal or idyllic about an indeterminate suicide mission. To make little letters to be read with caution, a contract is still necessary. But life is a gift that you can’t refuse and no one questions such a present. So sell your life dearly, and sell theirs at a discount, buy time behind masks, a deception worthy of this mascarade.
I will not say good evening or my name and certainly not my nickname. I am quite happy to take the place that is rightfully mine on the righthand side of mankind’s first freestyle. I am only there to tell a story. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing amazing, just my ordinary self. An ordinary thing ressembling my face, with last nights bruises, the breath of a grocer, the smell of a stranger and the sound of my playlist. Right now, right here, just you and me, forever and ever, alone, together, together, together…
It was as if their eyes were telling me to go back to the box that they had so graciously assigned me and let me rot in peace… Atmosphere.
As time goes on, the scene replays itself in front of the coffee machine in a consanguineous circle. Even in my sitting room, face to face with another one of those idiots on TV. In a situation such as this, I would rather be plagued by a criminal suspicion, even one of those class inferiority complexes. But, unfortunately, I feel comfortable in my own skin wherever I go. So, next time I meet that stranger and size him up like a slab of meat or a bag of water and the qualifications hanging around his neck, I often hope to take it up with the man himself and not with his humanity!