Monday, 15 August 2016


During the day we manage to forget about them.
The heat warms up the air and our mood, nature sings with joy, our hearts get lighter, there's no room left for dread. As the sun sets, the world becomes peacefully quiet. After the day's excitement, life retreats to savour the night's chill.

Meanwhile, we wretched souls are not granted this sweet lull and another kind of chill trickles down our spine, stinging like needles between our vertebrae for we know they're waiting in the dark to fall upon us mercilessly. We strive to remain alert but they know exhaustion will seize us. They know that soon enough, their time will come to sneak upon us in the vulnerability of our sleep.

One by one, in every home, they attack. It always start quietly yet no less vile but soon a blood frenzy will take hold of them. No one will be spared, they bare no distinction and have no sense of pity. They're sharp and precise but never satiated, they will come and come at you again. We don't know why they can't simply strike at once, perhaps they feed on our pain and insanity too.

Thus will the night go. Every time we collapse with fatigue despite the agony, they will assault and taunt and torture, on and on until finally, they withdraw with daylight. Once again mosquitoes have ruined your night.

Thursday, 12 September 2013

Jumeau du ciel.

Partout l’infini, l’éternel infini. Rien qui n’entrave ou n’empêche la fuite. À tout instant se plonger dans le bleu et s’y perdre. Pas de poids, d’habitude, ni de limite. Le soleil en vis-à-vis est implacable, et dévore les pensées. Rien ne saurait ralentir sa course destructrice. Flotter. Se confondre dans l’espace et se laisser gagner par son indifférence.

Ni haine ni amour, ni rancœur ni rancune, laisser ses sentiments à l’abandon. Se purger de toute émotion.

Monday, 26 August 2013

Know how to waste your time.

Sit down on the balcony.
It’s half past five, there’s a smell of going-back-to-school in the air, soon the bell is going to chime the end of summer. The sun is on its way down but it’s still warm and angled just right. Up in the solid blue sky, time is passing. Let it go past. Enjoy the breeze, the warmth, the subtleties of the light’s reflections and bounces. Watch the honeysuckle grow back.
Take a good chunk of time and savour it for what it is. Don’t make anything of it, don’t grind it into efficiency. Nurture it, cherish it. Let it embrace you and sway along its gentle hum. It is of good advice: it always knows what you truly need, rather than what you think you want.

It takes actual skills to waste one’s time. Don’t do it properly and you’ll only end up with guilt, remorse and the sour aftertaste of stale butterflies. Do it with purpose and a smile on your face and you’ll feel rejuvenated.
Why spending one’s life multitasking on a treadmill? What’s the point of turning oneself into a mere operating unit? When life’s a bitch and she tries hard to break you down, just turn your back to her and send her to hell. Have a rest and be thoroughly unproductive. Have a good taste of time, enjoy it like a pipe, a piece of chocolate, a glass of whisky or all three at once. Let it fill you up until everything else has been pushed out and remain there for a while. Peacefully.

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

Pour mieux s'y reconnaître avec les ismes.

Le calvinisme, c’est quand on perd ses cheveux.
L’acméisme, c’est quand on a des boutons.
Le bilinguisme, c’est quand on a des problèmes d’estomac.
L’unilinguisme, c’est une pratique sexuelle.
Le plurilinguisme, c’est pour les émotifs.
Le congruisme, c’est quand on est souvent en déplacement.
Le théisme, c’est pour les oreillers.
L’érotisme, c’est pour les poulets.
L’élitisme, c’est pour les hannetons.
Le déisme, c’est quand on aime les jeux de rôle.
L’antillanisme, c’est pour ceux qui n’aiment pas le Ricard.
Le tripartisme, c’est un courant de la cuisine traditionnelle lyonnaise.
Le bouddhisme, c’est pour les râleurs.
Le bonapartisme, c’est pour ceux qui apprécient les bons repas.
L’embolisme, c’est pour les aviateur espagnols.
Le manichéisme c’est pour ne pas se brûler les doigts.
Le maoïsme, c’est quand on est accro aux lolcats. 
Le charisme, c’est pour ceux qui trouvent toujours une explication.

Monday, 12 August 2013

Sweet angel.

Why do I always have to catch cute things, like butterflies or ladybirds? Why can’t I catch fire or the small pox? Or even a bullet in my leg?

In the cartoons there’s a bunny with a tiny bunny on each of his shoulders. One is a little angel him and the other one is a little demon him. One tells him to do good, the other tells him to do bad. I’ve had a look over my shoulders but I could see no one. I think it’s because a long time ago, the tiny demon me slaughtered the tiny angel me and now he just wears his skin. It is who I am but people only see the sweet angel skin. Sometimes the demon wants to jump out and shout but the angel skin is very tight. One day he will find his way out. Not now, not yet. It would be quite nice and I would be freed but I can’t let them see the real me. In the meantime, I keep him busy.

They sometimes call me naughty. They’d be more accurate with nasty. It’s only little mean  actions, yet satisfactory. The maid got severely whipped for the silverware she had never sneaked in her drawers. From the vantage point of the heavy curtains, I saw the white skin of her back get more and more lashed with pink, then dots of red, until it turned fully purple. Then they kicked her out of the back door, half naked and sobbing pathetically. I never liked that Emily. She didn’t know how to comb my hair properly.
I found the stables cat hideout. She didn’t found her litter the day after. It’s annoying because now she miaows desperately at night when I’m trying to focus and write. But it also makes me giggle because I remember the funny high pitch gurgly sound from the bottom of the pond. Anyway, she won’t complain much longer; I heard the butler say that noisy cat wouldn’t last two more nights if she didn’t hush at last. 

It’s only bits and pieces, little mischief. When I am strong and cunning enough, it will be a different story. Day after day, I observe silently. I note I retain, I deduce I discern. I teach myself the art of deceit. I will grow manipulative, I will grow powerful. And the angel skin will fool them all.