Births
The world is small…
The world is so small that there is no horizon. Imagination dissipates into a volcano of fog, a crater similar to those southern villages that witnessed my birth… Or should I say my births ; as life, not wanting me, has reluctantly accepted me and tried to throw me into a uterine abyss. Only, the shapeless cave refused to stay covered in smoke, the fog ended up dissipating, and the sky opened up in its infinite depth.
It was thus that, conceived in an egg without shell, and whose membrane was not opaque, I find myself immediately in a new existence where, the view has opened up a little, and the membrane has been extending without breaking. On the borders, it has become more opaque, but space has enlarged so that it became a perfect cylinder. Light, sometimes, makes it way from above.
But man is nomad, as Brel has said once, and the space I acquired in this native countryside, far from the city and its troubles, and I was quickly under the spell of this winged being that flies high… High enough to go over the surrounding mountains that oppress me… But it is dark, and the world is too small to see a horizon, a dream, a hope….
In the dark and morose darkness, I close my eyes one more time. I only have the heat of my veins to light up my way, and I see red everywhere… Red like blood… Red like the pleasure of the bloody lover intent on his task with his beautiful savage virgin… Red… Reddish… Rose! Rose like the imaginary mouth that covers my lips, that sticks to my neck, that uncovers its delicious softness and licks my body until I am drunk, and in my fascinating binge, I faint… And as I fall, I touch the soft ground that takes me, absorbs me in its hallucinating resolve, in the fantastic impulse of its burning chair.
I look… I look around me, first, to try and find some familiar bearings. The mountains have not moved, yet… It is a quite different scenery. Everything has become bigger, more impressive… In an intense moment, I quiver… I try to remember, to reconstruct my memory, but my past has hidden in an unattainable depth. I sit and observe…
I am lying down on a white ground, perfectly white. On every side, the walls are high and bending towards me. The walls are white. A windows, at an impassable height, lets through a dim light. Through the window, I barely see some tree branches, and further away, a window surrounded with a wall as perfectly white. I raise my eyes, and I see a ceiling so high I feel dizzy. In the middle, a lamp tries to catch my hand – her hand in gloves looks like a pear – but fails as its arms have been cut off.
What happened? Where are my mountains? Where is this sky that only moments ago was holding me in its invisible hands and made me float over the clouds? The city seems to have caught up with me, as quickly as a desert tornado! I try to walk and reach a wall, to touch it, thinking that it would vanish, and not only would I see a mountain, but the obstacles would just disappear and let me see, for the first time, a vastness that would take me to the end of the world. The end of the world towards which I am ready to go, even on arms and legs as I am forced to do. The end of the world from which I can jump into sidereal void, where nothing would limit my view. There where the world – what am I saying? – the universe would go naked for my own pleasure… The universe would become, like my mother, the pure innocence that has no false decency. The innocence that was, way before the first apple, the first snake, the first seduction, the proper of the likes of me… Those amorphous beings that, for centuries, millenniums, have been trying, on arms and legs, trying to go to the end of the world… To reach the nourishing breast of the angelic being …
I suck the breast to get some strength, but also to absorb my mother… I have to suck on it until she is entirely contained within my womb, as I was long ago in hers. So that the universe is within me, and that I am its mother!
Poetic Writing
7/5/2006 6:52:36 PM UTC 
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