March 7, 2015

Fugitive, fragile, brittle, surprising words all beginning and ending with the same letter (in French: fugitive, fragile, friable). Brittle (friable) is the one I remember. Our lives of cliffs, canyons or dunes, do not escape the insatiable friction of becoming. So what can we say about our ephemeral glories? It is by sitting against the wall of one’s conscience, crossed legs, arms on one’s knees, deadhead on one’s neck, eyes devoid of gaze, it is by breathing the neutral air of the one who knows what surrounds us that one can taste this hard grain, small, detached from the rest, these certainties that hasten to cement themselves to each other as if they already felt the fate that was reserved for them. By breathing like this, you can roll this little piece of rock on your tongue and it immediately plunges into your throat. A little bit, the passing of time, the beauty of the passage, what I manage to grasp for a fraction of a second and which, as if I would die eternally, is already tiring in the void, dissolves.

I thus obtain the necessary peace, but there is a struggle, desire, anxiety. What is open to the senses and thoughts has the charm of luxury, the intoxication of promises. I accept right away, I don’t put any brake on what could feed me.

But I don’t want to forget that word. Brittle, let say it in French with a British accent, Friable. I can hear the compact snow of the glacier creaking and shivering. I hear without understanding. Ignorance is so pure, so smiling, so comfortably placed in the arms of wisdom.