Conquering the wall
Within us is a world as vast as the universe. Ironically, despite the powers of the mind, we seem to traverse it only on foot. In dreams, we can only transcend the regions that inhabit us, populated by monsters and possibilities. During these short escapades, lovers’ skin tastes of honey, and anxieties drive us to adventure.
In everyday life, the step is a little frailer. The desire is frugal. Good intentions muffle the journey. We are not blind, but blinkers nonetheless guide our course. We want to be horses, with our four hooves biting the ground at high speed.
In this world, in this us that escapes us, borders would not exist. It is enough to open up to dreams, to listen to them as they bubble to the surface of consciousness, to see all those wrecks stranded during childhood on the often licked surface of our desires. All we have to do is bend down and pick up these shells that will send back to us the echoes of what we are when worn in our ears.
In this world inaccessible to the day, I have visited the bodies of birds, vipers, men, and women. I have tasted the lips of life, tried to melt into it with orgasms. I have sung like an amoeba among the abysses, and I believe that I sing there; I will always sing there if I manage to bypass the walls that prevent me from seeing the horizon, the worlds, the mystery.
Growing old does not consist in abandoning the spirit of one’s youth, but in surrounding one’s thoughts with fences that one wants to be solid, well stocked with plants and fruits. It is a strange desire since nourishment seems more abundant on the other side of the fence, where the roots can drink from what we do not know.
To live one’s life well would consist in forbidding oneself nothing of the fertile, in plunging one’s sex into the uterine heat of one’s soul, in being also this welcoming placenta, this cavern of all moments.
We must, therefore, no longer regret anything, no longer rely on the shadows of our failures. We must always get up, walk barefoot beyond our past. The grass is always more beautiful on the other side of the history, fresh and wholesome. When the moment remains present on the drumhead vibrating under our fingers, the lungs laugh, the sound is clear as childhood.
