Posts Tagged: English-spoken

The so called cold [version bilingue]

Evanescence – Missing

Can you hear the lost souls ?

We’re all grieving
And crying
For things we cannot name

We’re all alone
We’re all alone in this together
So when we cry
We can’t hear others crying

A million tears
A million nights
Won’t erase the blood on our hands
A million tears
A million nights
We’re still fighting the silence of our home
Still struggling with the violence of our heart
A million tears
A million nights
Are still not enough

My eyes stay open at night
‘Cause i can hear the lost souls
Night after night
My eyes face the dark

No one hears me cry
No one can hear the cries at night
No one is heard at night

We’re all alone
In the deadly cold night

There is à cold so cold
You think it’s hot
So hot you get naked
Until the cold bites you to death

We’re all alone
Crying in our deadly cold night
No one can hear you
No one is strong enough
We’re all alone together
Together in our deadly cold night

A million tears
A million nights
Maybe we’ll learn how to live
A million tears
A million night
Until we reach other souls
A million tears
A million nights
Until we seize the hand we can’t see
A million tears
A million nights
Being lost and alone
A million tears
A million nights
Before the sun comes up
And the deadly cold night comes to an end
And we survived

Can you hear the lost souls ?

Entends-tu les âmes perdues ?

Nous souffrons 
Et pleurons tous
Des choses qui ne peuvent être nommées

Nous sommes tous seuls
Tous seuls ici ensemble
Alors quand nous pleurons
Nous ne pouvons entendre les autres pleurer

Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
N’effaceront pas le sang sur nos mains
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Toujours nous affrontons le silence de nos maisons
Toujours nous luttons avec la violence de nos coeurs
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Ne suffiront pas

Mes yeux restent ouverts la nuit
Car j’entends les âmes perduse
Nuit après nuit
Mes yeux fixent les ténèbres

Personne ne m’entend pleurer
Personne n’entend personne pleurer la nuit
Personne n’est entendue la nuit

Nous sommes tous seul
À souffrir
À essaye
Dans la nuit mortellement froide

Il existe un froid si froid
Que tu penses qu’il fait chaud
Si chaud que tu te déshabilles
Alors le froid te ronge jusqu’à la mort

Nous sommes tout seul
À pleurer nos nuits mortellement froides
Personne ne peut nous entendre
Personne n’est assez fort
Nous sommes tous seul ensemble
Ensemble dans nos nuits mortellement froides

Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Peut-être apprendrons-nous à vivre
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Jusqu’à trouver d’autres âmes
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Jusqu’à saisir la main que nous ne pouvons voir
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
À être seul et perdu
Un million de larmes
Un million de nuits
Avant que le soleil ne vienne
Et que la nuit mortellement froid ne touche à sa fin
Et que nous ayons survécu

Entends-tu les âmes perdues ?

The death of the Clock-Woman [English translation]

My Sleeping Karma – Ephedra

A motion. Thin. Light. A quivering maybe. A vibration. A quake delicate like an origami. So little and unreal one could have missed it without even noticing. Yet, the motion was here. It was trying to grow bigger. From sigh to wave, from echo to resonance, it wanted to grow.

It was time.

 The Clock-Woman didn’t know how to react. The space had moved. She felt it. While her body was slowly swallowed by the frozen water, she felt the wreck moving. Nothing, it was nothing. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. The uroburos had frozen time. Any move was impossible. So the bathroom, in the boat perfectly moored, could make everyone safe. Stopping the run of time had been life-saving. For this, the Clock-Woman had given her skin to record every single second, memorise any single image and sound. Today, her whole skin was covered in key moments. Keys that would never open any door again if the wreck was about to get lost at sea again

Everything is fine now.

 Something had to be done. But the cold had stiffened her body until the unconscious. Until she fell on the other side of pain. Until that moment where pain is just the ghost of another life. She had to move anyway. Someone had to face the extent of the damages. And she was the only one who could do it. Someone had to move. The motion was still getting bigger. A simple touch of the floor was enough to realise the motion was real

 Supposing that there was still a floor.

The Clock-Woman looked at the bathroom again. The water had invaded all the available space. The lines of the tiles were losing their consistency because of it. There was no precision in their layout anymore. Impossible to go between them, impossible to avoid them. Simply impossible. The lines were blurry, threatening. The disolved lines were announcing the end of the world. Maybe it was a trick of the eyes, but they seem to get mixed up under the pressure of the motion, still growing, and soon to be a shock wave. The vibration seemed to prepare itself to ingratiate themselves better in the flaws.

 Someone had to stay
Someone had to observe
Someone had to write it down
statisticate everything

But there was no one. There had never been anyone. Maybe there will never be anyone. Something had to be done. The vibrations would soon swallow them all.

The Sandman couldn’t. Entirely dedicated to the panic of the moment, he was unable to fully understand what was going on. He was splitting up himself in states of emergency, still looking for a way to stop the water. The rise seemed impossible to stop. And so he was running. No time to find a solution to the problem. No time to find the original leak. So he was running, he was spreading himself in sandbags everywhere he could.  He spread and spread, grain after grain, unable to know if he would ever be strong enough to stop the flood. The Sandman was getting out of breath in panic in this space where air was getting rarer by the mnute. Between the frozen water and the rough sand, what was worse between the poison and its antidote ?

There was no one else and yet someone had to handle the emergency
One more
Because without the usual run of time, everything was an emergency
And the vibration was still getting bigger.

Pandora had created the surprise. She had moved when everyone thought she was finaly dead. Unconscious lack of concern, her arms kept wearing away by the acid finaly freed from the box. Her skin in shred was like a delicate veil, ready to wrap her if she could find how to move to act on the guilt that kept making her swallow the pain even more. If someone had told her to stop, that would have changed nothing, she would keep swimming, forcing the waving of her body until the now-exploded box. She stopped to listen long ago. Her throat was trapped by the weight of contradictory messages, and so she stopped listening.

Figute it out
No, you’re not hurting
You should have came earlier
I don’t understand why you hurt
It’s pure stupidity to have waited so long
Why did you come
I don’t see where is the problem
You can’t handle that alone
Figure it out
         on your own.

Pandora held her head straight and her voice dead for long now, she had swallowed all the snakes coming, even for a moment, in the crew. Pandora might have ended up pulling off her own tongue. She had bitten it so much to shut up, to shut up the weaknesses of the rats from the crew :   the uroburos who was dying under its own weight, the laugh of Cassandra like a curse she threw to the others as much as to herself, the blood of the dead girl unable to die for real, the unabling panic of the Sandman, the skin of the Clock-Woman who was so sick of remembering…  Pandora has swallowed her own tongue and tones of her own blood in the time. Never ever complaining. And when the bow had broken under the pressure of the screaming, the nightmares and the smell of rot, when she has been accused of every miseries, she did not complain. She laughed until she suffocated under the rising water. Because it was the only thing to do. Because it was all that was left to do. Because it was the only reasonable option.

And now the mooring lines have broken.  

Pandora knew, but Pandora couldn’t tell. Pandora was not allowed to tell. Never. She swore. She, more than anyone on the ship, knew the price of blood. She was not allowed to tell. Time passing by, she had even forgotten how to speak.

Can you blame people for not seeing what you hide from them ?

The Clock-Woman had to move. There was no one. The vibration had got so big it has nothing to do with a vibration anymore. The vibration turned into a seismic rift. The wreck was struggling with even more rage. The lines of the tiles would soon have lost all sense if nothing was done. The lines of the tiles were not lining up any though now.

It was time.

The Clock-Woman had to move. There was no one else. The Sandman couldn’t stop his run. Pandora was swimming without any faith, looking for the pieces of the box. The Clock-Woman had to move, it was her job. She always brings them home. She promised.

When she forced her body to stand up, the whole pain woke up. The violence of the shock cut off her breath during another shock wave. Breathe, send back the pain where no one could hear it, move on. It wasn’t the first time. But so much time had passed by since a pain screamed so loud to be heard. So much time since she had to tighten her teeth so strongly she could break them. It was impossible to lock this pain in the box.

One gets used to anything, even the worst
Especially the worst
Body memory has no equal

The first impulse is always the hardest. Force the body to go against its instinct. Force the loop. Become the uroburos. The first impulse is still the hardest. The run-up, everything lies in the run-up. You had to know how to prepare the run-up and use it for the best. Becoming the evergoing motion. That was the key. The price to pay was known. Cassandra smiled between the erased lines of the tiles. Cassandra had always known. She had simply waited. When her eyes met the Clock-Woman’s, who ignored her so often, she simply landed her hand. Between the white fingers of the curse seller, a simple crack of the tiles. The Clock-Woman knew… but the key was needed, she had to force this body to make the first impulse. She had to get out of the frozen water. The first impulse is always the hardest…

Blood relationships are nothing more than a story with an unknown ending

The Clock-Woman swallowed the crack without a second thought. The waves of shock were multiplying and getting closer. They were throwing themselves on the wreck with no warning. It was time. Her legs reacted to the poison before her brain could even name it. The first impulse was given, the Clock-Woman was now able to reach the surface… Following her, a thin line of blood was slowly flowing out of the crack in her right arm. The Clock-Woman didn’t notice the wound, or she pretented so. The Sandman tried to throw the necessary sand to wipe it off. Pandora collected the drops to add them into the box. Cassandra was already back into the lines of the tiles, silently crying and blaming herself for being right once again.

It was time.

Outside, the storm was raging. Once she arrived on the deck of the wreck, the Clock-Woman understood. The mooring lines had broken. And now they were wandering onto the ocean. Without a map or a compass, the boat had floated away, following every passing winds. The eye of the storm only hid them for a moment before abandoning them. And now they were trapped right in the middle of the storm. The waves were throwing themselves one the hull like they had nothing left to lose. The wind was rushing into the cracks of the wreck, twisting the wood that was screaming all the silence filling it. From the silence of the wreck ready to split from the inside or the screaming of the hungry waves, it was impossible to know what was the most hurtful. Anyway, they couldn’t hear a thing anymore…

Tell me why people are afraid of the dark ?
The monsters hide in the silence…

In the middle of the random row, the Clock-Woman couldn’t hear a thing anymore. There was nothing anymore. There is no one. Cassandra’s laughter, the crack of Pandora’s bones, the Sandmand’s wandering steps, the Uroburos’s floatting… nothing anymore. There was nothing anymore. The Clock-Woman might have never felt so alone than here, on the deck of the wreck, naked in the middle of the storm where whe couldn’t hear a thing anymore. Her tired skin couldn’t follow the rythm. The violence of the wind right on her bleached skin revived every scar. Alone, naked, in the middle of the storm, the Clock-Woman would have cried, but her eyes had once again forgotten how to do it.

No, this is not how you feel
That’s not why you’re not fine
You’re wrong
No, you’re not so down that this               

The Clock-Woman couldn’t hear anything to guide her anymore. There was no one anymore. The storm took what should have never been lost. Loneliness hugged with her with sticky and heavy arms, with no possible exit. The storm was still raging. She started to believe she would die suffocating under the silence and the loneliness when the sea opened… Summoned by the smell of blood, mermaids had reached the surface. They wanted more. They have been called and they wouldn’t leave empty-handed. Everything comes with a price and the first impulse was always the hardest. The Clock-Woman finally discovered the crack in her arm.

After her, it was nothing but a  suspended sentence…

The cut was beautiful, precise as surgery. The blood was peacefully flooding, as it has always done, bringing with it the usual floods of rot like some kind of necessary evil… Silence was still screaming around her, hitting her ears as an ever-going reminder. The mermaids did what they knew best, they started singing. Their song pilled up in the row of the storm. Impossible to hear through this. Impossible to find her mates. There was no one anymore now. The mermaids sang the enigma from inside, the unsolvable equation.

Someone had to die.

The Clock-Woman understood that long ago. But who was to sacrifice ? They survived to the mad ocean, together for so many years…. Who was to scarifice ? Cassandra and her cursed prophecies ? Pandora and her bones broken by the silence ? The Sandman who fixed only the immediate emergencies ? And why ?

Somone had to die
and someone had to chose

The mermaids were still singing, the mermaids would keep singing, and the mermaid would sing forever until finally someone answer. The time to look away was out. An answer was needed, an it was needed now.

It was time.

Maybe she had to die. Her skin still suffering from the wind was begging for the pain to stop. The first impulse was always the hardest, but the body never really forgets. Naked under the winds, the Clock-Woman had finally understood, maybe. She had to die. And it was unbearable. Was it what the dead girl felt when she was killed ? Nothing else but a deep feeling of being abandonned, a feeling covered by silence heavy enough to weight the whole world ? This kind of huge emptiness that screamed her name ? The mermaids smiled, the answer was given. Only the emptiness knew the name of the Clock-Woman. One could trust that kind of signs. But who would have her blood on their hands ? Who would take this new blame ? The sacrifice was compulsory, the guilt unavoidable. Everything comes with a price and someone had to be guilty.

So now who will have my blood on their hands ?

Maybe deep under the water, the rats would find someone to replace her. Maybe it was high time for them to find someone else in the deep water. It was time to have a name. Even though, she would never be completely reassured : who would bring them home once the water will have swallow her ? Who would come out of the storm ? Someone had to die…

Resigned, the Clock-Woman climbed the guardrail, and her eyes dived into the emptiness around. The mermaids were getting prepared to welcome her. They song slightly changed, from chord to perfect harmony, their voices promised peace, silence far away from the row, and even a name. Could she believe them ? The warmth of their smile didn’t lie… Maybe it was time. She tensed her hand one more time, they were numb by the blood dried by for years, without anyone being able to remember whose blood it was. Her fingers were still trying to hang on to something, as an old habit. Finally, the Clock-Woman closed her eyes. And in the wreck, they all held their breathe.

The first impulse was always the hardest.

The year of wandering [English translation]

Zywiolak – Psychoteka

More light, less tunnel
And how many tears in you coffe ?

To me, the future is nothing but steam on my glasses. A blurry stuff hiding my sight. If I take off my glasses to clean them, my sight gets terrible in a second. I can’t see well anymore, can’t see far, can’t see in details. My eyes get tired quicker, they blow up and my blood pressure climbs up to the migraine. If I keep my glasses cloudy, the world totally disappears. My face gets twisted in a grimace to find the right angle, the single little space where my sight can go through. The world is grey, I can only imagine things.
The future is nothing but steam on my glasses, it makes the world blurry. I can’t do as if it didn’t exist, deny its existence, block it out of my life. The operation is too hazardous. I can’t try to break the blurry. I’m stuck with glasses with no horizon. Like when you open the hoven without thinking of the heat getting out, the future hit me right in the face and here I am, blind in the middle of the kitchen, making crappy metaphor just so I can root out the evil.

More light, less tunnel
And how many tears in your coke ?

So here I am, in the kitchen, I’m making crappy metaphors and plan to go to the moon. Once again. Once more, once again holding on to dreams. The skin is burnt, everything is painful. The eyes are too blown, too swollen and I keep teling myself it’s gonna be ok. Because there is no other choice, it will have to be ok soon. The tunnels get longer and the claustrophobia is crawling on every walls. Anyway. Still. So, stille here, in the kitchen, my glasses full of future, or steam, or both, making lists. Vainly trying to prioritize. I make Freudian slip that can’t even work in English, and I’m crying again  because fucking translation is fucking impossible. I’m lost in translation. The body never forgets, the blood vibrates and the going back to the worst starts looking ok. The future is nothing but steam on my glasses, a blinker hiding the best when all my plans are collapsing.
So here in the kitchen, foggy glasses, my hands full of crappy metaphors and Freudian slip, I try to forget the worse. I pray for those hands, so full of bloody mess, keep finding the strength to hold on. To the slightest branch next to the precipice, the singlest hand that shows up, the slippery edge of the pool. Now, when I write a letter, the sender lives in the « Sadness Swamp » et the recipient is only a hypothesis. The converstion can go on for years…

More light less tunnel
And how many tears in your chocolate ?

In the Sadness Swamp, the time gets stuck and the future smells like rot. Like a dead end at the end of the tunnel. Or maybe it’s just my eyes that are not used to it anymore, they can’t tell the difference. They’re getting armed until the end of the eyelids. I twist my hands, looking for a way out. The hands get mixed up, tearing each other apart. Go, leave me here, but where do you go ? I’m still in the kitchen with my glasses full of a future which does not make sense. I hope that one day will come when my tears will get tired. Easy, if I stop drinking, my body will flirt with deshydration if it keeps crying with no warming. It’s not dumb enough to commit suicide isn’t it ? Just to be sure, I fill the bottle of water one more time. Still blind, I miss the tap. In the Sadness Swamp the dampness is mistress.
Still blind and bail out the kitchen. So now, the future is not only blurry, but also wet, and there is no way to find better metaphor in it. As if the words lost their color and shape in so much water. There is nothing about that in the dictionnary. Some word can’t handle more than 30° anxiety, others can’t go in the dryer without getting out of it covered in anger. A washing machine for love and a bleach for feelings… In the Sadness Swamp we recycle every word until it dies. You know, it’s all we have.

More light, less tunnel
And how many tears on your floor ?

In the Sadness Swamp, the future is nothing but steam on my glasses. I don’t know what to tell my mother anymore when she calls. Through the steam, I’m doing my best to stop the kitchen flooding. It’s going to be ok, sooner or later, it’s going to be ok. You just need to keep fighting. Just a litte bit. Just an effort. And it’s going to work. Soon the water will evaporate. Through my glasses the horizon will be seen again. Just have to wait a little bit more. Feet in the water, keep telling it’s going to be ok. Sooner or later, there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Hoping I will find out before the flooding…

4h12 Monster Time

Tic tac
Monster time
Hide yourself
Hide your scars
Don’t breathe
Don’t say a word
They’ll find you anyway
They’ll always find you

Tic tac
Monster attak
Watch for your feet
Watch for your breathe
They can smell fear
They can smell blood
For they are fear and blood
For you are nothing but fear and blood

Tic tac
Monster’s back
Hear the sound
Hear the crack
Hear the laugh
Hear the scream
Hear the tear
But where the hell are you ?

Tic tac
Monster’s right
Where are your pride ?
Where is your name ?
Where’s your shadow ?
Where’s your past ?
Where are your words ?
Where the hell are you ?

Tic tac
Monster time
You can’t wake up
You can’t end it up
You can’t move
Night is not over
Until monters are back under the bed
You’re nothing but fear and blood…

Home sweet home… [English version]

Epica – Sancta Terra

I want to go home…

In the middle of the noise, someone wanted to go home. In the middle of what was once his village, the man wish he could go home, but only ashes remain. The screaming, the tears… The man was tired. How many times will he have to rebuild everything again ? How many times will he have to start from scratch again ? His house is in ashes in the middle of the white noise, this nagging background noise which remains days and days after the fear, this nagging background nose which becomes the fear itself. The man watches the ruins, he doesn’t try to think. His mechanical arms are already working on the emergencies. The habit is merciless, after the bombs, after the shot, after the fear to die, pick up what can be picked up, rebuild one more time, hope it’s for the last time. The man is sad, but he doens’t know how to do otherwise. His house is in the middle of the ashes, his house is nothing more than ashes now, but it’s still his home. He knows that under the ashes, under the nagging noise et beyond the deadly habit, his home is still here. He hopes that time will bring it back to him. He hopes the day where he will not have the strength or the will to hope will never come. He hangs on to this simple idea : maybe one day, the madness will stop, the ashes will scatter, the noise will become music et his home will appear from the ruins of his house.

I want to go home…

In the middle of the crowd that squeezes together to get some warmth, in the middle of the camps which never ends being built and rebuilt again, the woman wish she could go home. The time to pray for the end of the madness is gone and forgotten. Its last day was when surviving worths more than a home.  She has insisted. Her family under one arm, a compass in her hand, she followed the hordes to a safer future, if a better one was impossible. They left everything behind. During the travel, they left little by little the few things they brought. During the travel, she sowed her home to the winds, hoping a breeze would bring her back some pieces of it. She doesn’t know the name of the country where they stopped. She forces herself to be happy to be alive. Some didn’t even survived the travel. Some should have never left their house. Sometimes, in the middle of the gates and the improvised houses, she regrets to have left. What does she think she will find over there ? She doesn’t really know anymore. She wish she could go home, but she already can’t remember very well where it was. Between there where she should have died, and here where she wants to die, her hearts can’t decide. She must still hope that somewhere there is still a home for her.

I want to go home…

In the middle of the disenchantments and the pieces of dreams, in the middle of the futures that are closing one after another, he wants to go home. He doesn’t know anymore. The man can’t recognise his country anymore. The man doesn’t recognise the world where he grew up. He keeps telling himself he’s lucky. His house still stands. His house is not threatened. He doesn’t risk to die anytime he goes out. He eats when he’s hungry. He sleeps under a roof. He has an address where he can come back, the same address that figures on his ID. Even though, the man doesn’t feel home. The emptiness is huge. He can feel it in his belly, he can feel it in his lungs. Useless. It’s the first word that comes to his mind when he sees himself in the mirror. His life is easy, meaningless, he has no point. His absence would not change a thing to the world. The man wants to go home but he doesn’t know where it is… He tried, but everytime, he went back to the landing point and it burnt his wings. The man is useless, he’s an item that can be changed with any other item among a lot more items. The man can’t do it anymore. The man doesn’t know how to move on. The man wish he could go home when everything shows him he owns a house. So why can he never go home ?

I want to go home…

In the middle of the news that always tell the same, in the middle of shooting broadcasted live and in several languages, she wants to go home. She’s looking for a reason to get up. Once again the shots. It could have been her. The feeling is tough, so tough it cuts her breath. It could have been her in this gay club, not so long ago, she was hanging up in places like that. It could have been her on this square, she loves fireworks so much. It could have been her daughter, after all she’s been through to become a mother. She can’t move of her sofa anymore. Her house doesn’t comfort her anymore. The walls are too thin, the world is too heavy. It could have been her. The thought is getting so strong that she doesn’t feel home anymore. The thought kicked her out of her home. The thought broke her completely. It could have been her. It still can be her. She doesn’t know anymore if she must be happy to be here, alive, on the sofa, watching the corpses falling et the shot running everywhere, or if she must cry for being obliged to watch the deadly show. It could have been her. And now, she will never really feel home anymore.

I want to go home….

In the middle of the world that’s freaking out, in the middle of the question with no answer, he wants to go home, but for the moment, he just tries to find his way. The man is still trying. One thing after another. He cut himwelf from the rest of the world. He has no idea of what’s going on in the world. He just has a blurry picture. This is how he protects himself. He can be seen as selfish, but the man follows his way. He listens to the stories he meets, he smiles to the people he discovers. During his travel, the draws all the pieces of happiness he can find. He immortalised those moments doomed to pass away if we don’t care enough. He wish we remembered nature. The man wish we seeked for the light. The man draws again and again to hide the darkness that are slowly eating his brain. The man can’t forget what he saw. He will always wonder if it’s fault. The man can’t really fix himself. The man wants to go home, but he knows he probably will never be allowed to do so. He rather not hope anymore. But sometimes, despair is too strong : the man wish he could go home. He comes to think the world is unfair : he gave so much, but he’s still not allowed to come back home.

I want to go home…

In this world where everyone is looking for his cat, the grass always seen greener everywhere else. Stories get mixed, lines get blurry, and the hierarchy of the worst softly break every souls in its spirals.

And while we’re killing each other, while we seek for a way to pay the bills, while we fight to give smiles, while we fight our own inner demons, while we run from the dead bodies, while we mourn them, while we fear them, or just while we look for a place in the world, I try to explain to twelve years old kid…

« You see, in English, you can’t say « I buy a home », because in English, there is two words to say « maison » : « house » and « home ». A house is building, it’s the walls and the roof. But a home, it’s where you belong, where you feel safe and you wanna come back. So, you can buy a house, but you can’t buy a home, it’s not possible in English. »

In the middle of nowhere, on my way back, I think the tears will come faster than the bus 52, terminus Villejean-Université on Sunday and hollidays.

Dear Self, 07/06/16 [English translation]

Dear Self,

We don’t talk much you and I. It’s bit weird since we share the same head, the same body. We pass each other more than we hang out together. You and I live in parallel words, assuming we will never bump into each other. You and I are like this guy who runs all the red lights, assuming he will never bump into someone else so late at night, and even though someone would come to break the nightly emptiness, he would have time to react. Until comes the day where it’s too late. Of course, lately, you tried to slow down, and so did I. We learned to follow the highway code. We stopped running after ghosts. We won’t lie, there are still many nights where we pull the accelerator. Because we’re used to, we’re tired, we want to taste danger or we can’t wait to crash into the wall. We never really now. I don’t know if it’s a problem. Neither do you.

We don’t talk much you and I. Maybe we should change this. Mabe we should try to be less of neighbours, and be more of coworkers. I would offer you to be my brother of blood, but I fear this image costs too much, for you and for me. There are triggers we should not pull. But maybe we could walk together and sing along. I guess you’ll like this image way more. Despite everything, we kinda know each other quite well… You and I have lost all respect or trust in ourselves. But the events forced us to find a solution anyway. I don’t know how this happened. Have we always lived next to each other, at first in a blessed ignorance, then in full consciousness ? Or were we deeply connected, a unique soul, who came to definitely break itself during an unfortunate night ? You and I, we finally came to an agreement. The whole word wanted us to search for the origins of this split, we chose not to care about it. We agreed that half an explanation couldn’t relieve us, we chose to learn how to live together in the best possible way, without caring about the reason of our existence. Maybe it was not the best thing to do. But like I did, you couldn’t stand those half answers, kind of agitated illusionist smokes under our nose. We agreed that we could not build on maybes. We chose to run away so we had a better chance to build. Of course, this solution is far from perfect, but it was the best we had. And we hold to it.

But here it is, now is time we find a way to work together you and I. In a more conscious, practical and coordinated way. Not always in hurry or panic. The problem when you don’t have any origin is that you don’t have any future. You’ll tell me, we were warned. And it’s true. This eternal present saved us more often than we can count. No doubt that even nowadays, it protects us from the bad weather, keep us from getting completely lost, and hold our head out of the water. But i’s not enough anymore. Dear Self, maybe it’s time we build for real, on a long term. Time we stop running from each other and we get to know and understand each other. To better protect this entity they call « I », maybe it’s time we stop taking turn. Maybe it would be for the best if we didn’t act in such a confused way. Maybe we wouldn’t go from emotionnal sponge to emotionless robot anytime. Maybe we could go to bed without any fear. I know… neither you nor I can remember time when such a thing was possible. I know that little by little, we survived using only statistics and empirism. I know that when it comes to the malfunctions of our broken mind, we reacted with dogmatic calculations to differentiate the truth and the fake. You and I agreed, since we would never have a ind able to think straight, we had to learn how to take the bends and curves with the greatest ability. We can be proud of this : we succeed what a lot would not even be able to imagine.

Dear Self, from time to time, we have stopped hoping. We litteraly forbade ourselves to do so. After so many loss, disappointments, betrayals, we burried every chance of hope in a brighter future, and so we were maintaining an infinite present. I don’t know if it’s you or me who ‘d like to cry all day long, neither do I know which of us finally do it, nor I know the reason for the tears. I know it’s the same for you. I don’t which one of us prevent the other from sleeping at night, or who scratches the face of the other, or which of us wants to bleach the other out of reality until there’s nothing left of us. I don’t know which of us is writing this letter to the other. Maybe both of us are writing it. By turn, we succeed one another froom a paragraph to another, letting the other speak after a point or a coma. Maybe that’s the reason why we always sound so rambling to the rest of the world, the reason why our words always get messy, coiling on themselves to finaly start again and again until it finds the right form. Because one always comes to fix the other’s deficiency without any torch being clearly delivered. You and I are like waves, we succeed one another, each one is self-sufficient and different, but never really alone or independant. We will never know when one starts and the other begins.

Dear Self, maybe it’s time to rethink our strategy. Maybe it’s time to move on. We are now master in the art of surviving. No doubt that no one outside you and I will ever know what we had to face in the countless lonelinesses. By the way, I don’t think even you and I will ever  really know… our tendancy to keep everything secret is as strong as our habit of self-censorship. But I still think that after surviving all of this, we could start living.

I don’t know how to do. Neither do you I guess. But if you feel like giving it a try, let me know. Maybe we can do that. After all, maybe it’s time we start creating our own roots, since we abandonned those who gave us life. Maybe now, we are able to do this.

In the meantime, take care of me.
I’ll have your back.

Labyrinth(s) ?

She’s talking. She’s clearly talking to you. But only a few words are able to reach you. You focus all your energy on her lips. If you could only spin a thread from her mouth to your ears, everything would be clearer. But it’s like there always are interferences ready to force themselves on you, breaking all possible transmission. You try, you force your conscience to stay focused, but your attention is constantly called somewhere else. Why is it you’re here ? What are you doing here ? Did you really come empty-handed ? No, obviously not. You must have brought something with you. It’s the first time you meet her, obviously, you wouldn’t have came empty-handed. So, you must have brought something, something related to the reason you came here. Except that now, you can’t remember any of these. And you can’t hear her voice. Which is really unfortunate when you think of it. Because if you could hear her, you would definitely understand why you came to see her. Try again, maybe if you try hard enough… You realise now she’s not upset by your silence. Maybe she doesn’t even realise you can’t hear her. Or maybe she doesn’t care if you hear her or not. Maybe she’s just using you to empty herself. That’s it. You’re container in which she pours herself. When you look around, you get it. The house is full… You get to wonder how she can still fit oxygen in it. Every space is so full… papers… dishes, clean, broken, dirty… food, half-eaten, plastified, smashed, fresh, rotten, moldy, ready for dinner… clothes… and so many things you can’t even name. There is even hair… or… hairs ? Yes, that’s it, hairs. You feel the scent of dogs, and as if you could see them, you suddenly guess that there are more dogs in this house than fingers and your both hands. You’re not afraid of dogs. No. It’s not the problem. Then what it is ? It’s not far, you can smell it, here somewhere, stuck between the piles of nameless mess…

While you’re looking for the solution to the mystery, her voice suddenly reaches you, clear and precise.
« Two hours. It would be great if we met two hours a week. »
Clear and precise like a curse. You’re freaking out. It’s not a good idea. You don’t even know why, but it’s not. You wish you could explain, but your voice get tangled, lost, broken. It’s like your tongue has suddenly doubled and your words can only escape your lips in isolated syllables. It seems like she doesn’t realise that. Or she doesn’t care. In the same way you couldn’t hear her voice, you can’t make hear yours. She peacefuly stands up, with charm and finesse you wouldn’t have imagine. This simple gesture is enough to calm you down. There is still no reasonnable explanation for your behaviour, it’s just that seeing her standing over the table like that seems to restore some cohesion in this chaotic universe around you. Unfortunately, this break is very short. You didn’t hear the voice, but you she was called outside. You didn’t hear because it’s like every piece of this house has its own voice to call her again and again. Every abandonned items, every twig is looking for her attention. Which voice is she answering ? You have no idea. She smiled at you, glad you fell agree.
« Dogs must be fed ! »

She left the room, bringing with her all the finesse of the room. Nothing’s left is. Nothing but you and the voices of all the things lying around, waiting for someone to pick them up, to take care of them. But you’re not the one they want. You’re just a cheap replacement compared to the sophisticated creature living in this place. The whole house suddenly feels hostile. Now you know why you were terrified sooner when finding out how many dogs were living here. Their smell is everywhere. It’s crashing you. It’s screaming « this is our place ». The smell would kick you out in the moment if it could. The voices of the abandoned items join the sensory mess so you leave the place. You don’t know what to do. You haven’t said goodbye, you couldn’t. You don’t evn know why you came, and now you have to live this again two hours every weeks, and you don’t even know what for. You need to go. Deep inside, you know this is not ok, that you must say goodbye. But you can’t handle it anymore, you feel the smell getting stronger and stronger, se voices getting moe hostile, the walls tightening on you, so tight that you’re about to lack of air. You need to go.

You start your journey. It’s the good choice of word. The house is huge, a true labyrinth. Indeed, she’s so huge that several trees have already grown inside, pushing every items against the walls, spreaing even more chaos. You don’t know where she’s gone. And you don’t remember how you got to the room where you were talking with her. It’s like you didn’t even exist before this conversation with her. Like you have never heard a single voice before hers reached your ears. You don’t understand the rules of this place. You wander more than you walk. You clearly need to understand how things work here to get out. Having no clue, you decide to follow your guts, and so you run away from the dogs’ smell. Like an anti-hunter, you unfollow the trail, going where it’s less and less perceptive. The walls seem to bec loser on you. The general chaos is more and more difficult to label. The trees are thicker and thicker, their roots are bigger and bigger. You start doubting your choice… Maybe you got even deeper inside the house instead of getting closer to the exit like you hoped. You finaly get to a weeping willow. The light coming out of it finally soften all the hostility that was suffocating you since she left. Its long branches peacefuly run against the walls. A draught even come between them, creating a soft waltz. You don’t know where it comes from, but you finally feel relieved. You come to lie a bit against its trunk. You live your head against the bark and enjoy its rough touch. Before you realise it, and even if you didn’t really want it, you fall asleep.

It is this exact same draught that wakes you up later. The thin branches are caressing your skin with all the softness you thought she could have before you got lost in her house. You wish you could stay here. Not moving anymore, simply enjoying this time of peace. But the branches are insisting : you need to go… You stand up with a resigned sadness. You know the tree is right, you need to go. When witnessing your sadness, the weeping willow refuses to let you go on your own. Its branches slowly grow, crawling against the walls, chosing carefuly the corridors where they spread. Other branches come to friendly hold your hand : you’re not on your own. And this is how the tree is guiding you to the exit you were mourning for. You don’t have the time to thank the weeping willow. You are barely out of the house, and it has already completely vanished. As if you had only dreamt it. You can still feel the marks of the bark of the trunk on your neck, the thin scratches of the leaves on your arms. You fingers follow them : you’re not on your own.

It’s night outside, and you need to go hom now. You start walking down the streets. You’re lying to yourself. Your mind has learned this new particular skill in no time : he forgets to tell you are in the middle of labyrinth once again. And while you follow the black-bricked walls shining of dew, your mind is lining up your steps with the way created by the passing ivy. Your mind is sure that like the weeping willow, the ivy will know how to bring you back home. You must admit that it was a good choice. Because you finally are in front of your building. The frontage is made with the same black brick than the walls of the streets. You are a bit astonnished to see how everything is so wet. You haven’t heard the rain. There is no watter on the floor, and all of this seems too much. You try not to care. Anyway, you don’t have time for this, a new task is awaiting you. The door is locked, you must convince the door code to let you in. This kind of machine does not fit with the style of the building, but once again, you don’t have time for such questions. The true problem now, is that the door code is not working. You refuse to panic. You did not successfully come here to panic now. So you just find a way to hoppen the bow, and here you are, with your hands in the wires, looking how to untangle them. Obviously something might not be wired the right way. Something might be damaged. But you have no way to know what and why. There is no rule in this bunch of wires. And the more you stick your hands in the wires, the more there are wires. Your hands are burning, you might have earned a few electric shocks with all these frictions. You’re so convinced that there is no other way in, that you have no choice than fixing this, that the pain can’t reach your brain. And you keep going, convinced that you will end up finding the magic solution to connect the disastrous machine with the door. Sooner or latter, you will figure out how this works. In the meantime, blisters start appearing on your hands.

You’re surprised when the light goes on. You didn’t notice, but there is a window above the door. It’s where the light comes from, it spreads how it can on the entrance where you’re still fighting witht the machine. And so the miracle you did not expect anymore happens : a woman opens the door. She doesn’t have the finesse of the one in the house. You can say she is kind of sophisticated, but her face seems rough, or not well-designed. Her hair has the shape of a draft mass, like if they were drawn on the wall with chalk stick. But you don’t care. Because she lets you in. Nothing comes out of her. Neither hostility nor kindness. She looks like she acts only because it is what must be done. She opens the door and move to the side so you can come in, but more precisely, so you can have a perfect sight of what’s coming next for you. You have barely entered the building that you are petrified : stairs everywhere, leading to deep corridors et endless doors. You can’t make a move. It’s like your brain can not hold so many information, you can’t make a single move. You’re overwhelmed. Your eyes are getting insane, looking for a spot where they can start mapping the place. All you wanted, was to go home… You feel the tears flowing along your cheeks and you do nothing to stop them, you can’t do anything. You don’t have the strenght. They flow and flow, ready to sink the whole place. The woman puts her hand on your shoulder, and with an almost warming voice, she just says :

« You’d better get back to work now… »

When she gets out, she closes the door after her, leaving you on your own the entrance, starring this new labyrinth in wich you hope your house is. Your home. It’s only when your hand are strong enough to wip your eyes that you understand why the walls outside were so wet…