Whatever is inaccessible

Whatever is inaccessible sculpts the sand of our dreams. The lover in the distance, the one you don’t have or the one you would like to know, the glory of hard work or luck, money, eternal life. We would like Chance to do things right, for appointments to be magical, for our daily lives to sprout peace.

We are divinely and so easily dissatisfied with everything. A little more of this, a little more of that. The quest is endless, encouraged by failures, misfortune, happiness always behind his promises. There are also those little dead, lascivious, lying and unfaithful pleasures, or those looks that deny you their depth.

We think we have found the light that shadows, more adult than reason, immediately emerge from karma giving days the hues of the night.

Whenever we want, maybe we can, we say to ourselves. In time, everything will be fine. We are satisfied with this patient philosophy. The days, the years pass until the moment when you run out of breath after having let your mind ride for so long on the back of so many chimeras. We then wonder what all this is for, these incisive wills, oceanic aspirations, and theatrical desires. We think that time, which has always counted for itself, is suddenly very discreet. Fear dries up the speech; the heart interrupts its prayers. An angel, two, three and more pass away, our hopes hanging on their wings.

What if this thirst for these beautiful beings and things was only the expression of a fearful feeling in the face of emptiness? Ah! Let us laugh about it and surprise ourselves despite the lack of originality of the questioning. For such is the beauty and heaviness of the observation, that there is no answer, only a living obstinacy.