Looking

I looked up at the scene. The tree seemed to speak to me without me understanding its language as if I had, after all, only the neutral vision of an animal. No danger in sight, only the virtual protection of a city besieged by a little snow.

I still liked what I saw and rushed to get my camera out. Click. Just that, click. I came in and enlisted under the sheets to work on my novel a little bit. I fell asleep quickly afterward. This morning, I was happy to be alive again, tired, glad to look at the zebra window.

My eyes still don’t see the storm coming. Have my ears become schizophrenic? How long are these waiting hours, have I been used to crying for years?

I’m not complaining too much. I don’t know what to say except to continue this pious listening to my existence. I let go of my little joys, like an antelope in front of its pond.

Words are beautiful, they even embellish lies.