You are not there

You are not here, and I am looking for you. Since I was a child, or maybe much earlier, in my mother’s center, her womb, or my father’s balls, his spears, I would have felt your presence. It is all fantasy. My father didn’t think about me when he kissed my mother. What could she be thinking then? What was the purpose of their dance at that particular moment of my conception?

It doesn’t really matter to know, but it’s a fun game to imagine, if only to fill that void of your silence.

I had often had the impression of perceiving your shadow, for lack of your light, when I, also in an embrace, abandoned myself to a promise of I don’t know what. People who wander from flirtation to flirtation, I imagine, track down this taste of opium in every mouth, the pores oozing with dissatisfaction. But it is not only about sex. The thirst, the quest is buried like a river of deep lava as much in our bodies fertile with impulses as in our thoughts connected to the northern lights of imaginary worlds.

You are not there to please us but rather to guide us? You are there when I write this note on my phone, when I bring food to my mouth, when I breathe, when I think of mother, father, sisters, friends, colleagues and strangers. You are there when I want to offer my body or words. You have no respite, and you are amused by me when I sleep. I often wake up disappointed because your inventions were only pretexts to make me understand something else. Freud has lost his teeth as well as his Latin with that.

You are not here because you are everywhere. I am probably also elsewhere with you. You offer me the universe. It is up to me, to us, to open the sex of our eyes.

And then, paradoxically, you hide behind death like an old person who is ashamed of his/her body. You are generous for a while; then you abandon us slowly. We become noble blisters that fade away at random from a pendulum that goes in all directions.

I don’t know what else to say, but I persist; I go around in circles, I brush up against you like a hungry cat. I understand the obsessed ones to obsess; I devour myself of passions hidden from the gaze and the court of the good conscience. I remain virtuous, do not worry (but you do not care, the proof, you make me do these things in dreams!).

This text could not see an end, and it would be unnecessarily long. Your animal skin, your heavenly hair! It will never be futile, on the other hand, to let the genie come out of its lamp to invent some following-up, with the hope to remain eternally at your side, my life, and to make the others hear the strange agreement which binds us together in your benevolent and traumatic silence.