Undergoing the inevitable law gravity, a few intrepid raindrops glide joyfully over the glass surface, like an invitation to the melancholy of days spent trolling. Celestial watered down flavor of our lives caulked inside, huddled on the sly by the fire crackling in the fireplace. Drowsiness out of tune, propriety rediscovered.
Suddenly, nothing is of great importance anymore, within this confidential refuge, time suddenly seems obsolete, rid of its carnivorous grip. And we are surprised to savor the fullness of this moment of solitude with ourselves, punctuated by these haunting silences that say much more than any appropriate speech.
Then the dialogue sets in, minimalist, internalized, crystallized against secret territories, revealed at the end of the end of the effervescent escape. This little, infinite field of interstices with the delicacy of the palette of emotions.
Intrinsically what about this elusive multi-faceted character ? What do we know about this alter ego which, from time to time, appears and shows through in the line space at the end of this feeling of rediscovered feelings? What about all these expectations, these aspirations, these convictions, these certainties and these wanderings in the corridors of destiny?
Life that sizzles like an illusion, in the crosshairs of the unsuspected, embracing the poetry of photo booths. What to do with these afternoons of resonance when the words are caulked?
Far from the mirror that everyone holds up to in the early morning in front of the bathroom mirror, the inner gaze is more like a test of strength than an examination of conscience. Difficult face to face similar to an encounter with a stranger passing through the mist of tears. The light, raw and pale, reveals human fragilities, between fervor and disenchantment.
Precipitated by the orgies of November, now the rain, redoubles its attention. Yesterday the weather was much more lenient, tipsy gray has replaced the blue of the sky, bad weather for some, rotten weather for so many others. Rain, rushing skies, whim of the gods, benefactor who washes away all the urban filth and purifies the whirlwind of insults, while giving pride of place to verdant meadows, high pastures and the intrepid showers.
But who can enjoy without hindrance these showers of precipitation, which once soaked to the bone exhale in you this scent of wet dog? Who, if not raincoats and umbrellas, frogs and snails, forests and thickets, trees and forests, Gaia and her divinities?
Wedged deep inside, the nest is as cozy as a feather duvet. Invitation to let go, to listen to the little inner music, to reunite with this loved one whom we manhandle point-blank under the constraint of our overloaded agendas of full-time ministers, prisoners of the internal workings of time.
Such a rare and precious standard that slips through our fingers without warning, that makes life slip by like lightning on a stormy evening. Futility of moments. Between glory and disillusion.
In the heat of the red hearth, the flickering of the flames accompanied by this incomparable scent of consumed wood, a legacy of the accomplishment of cavemen. Deployed in august arabesques, the smoke vanishes as soon as it is engulfed in the immense drain of old fairgrounds patinated by the wear of the ages.
By the fireside, life takes on a whole new dimension, as if we finally allowed ourselves the privilege of savoring the fleeting moment of this encounter with the nostalgia of those who long before us sat around this place. of life, of conviviality. A glow shines up there, our hosts shrouded in light.
At the rendezvous of these reunions, parents, grandparents, ascendants, ancestors and ancestors of yesteryear. So many siblings gathered together, so many shared stories, so many black and white destinies that clutter the forgotten photo albums in the attics of the family hovels.
The entirety of this string of insignificants which put end to end reconstitutes the puzzle of dissolute courses, to throw bridges between the different epics since the dawn of time. A journey behind the scenes in the flavor of memories.
wet shade forced to last in the daytime spectacle, the rain seems to have paused for a brief lull. Sailing under the arches, the ceiling of the sky descends again with a tone of grey. In the background, long monochrome landscapes swaddled in a syncopated language. Dull colors faded under the wash of this soaked watercolour. The image freezes in slow motion.
Thirsty for sleet, from the top to their roots, the trees are sweating their hearts out. It floats like a new season fragrance. Ignoring the annoyances of the gloomy weather, a few intrepid sparrows snort in the mud of the puddles. This all sounds incredibly romantic.
Just before sinking into the folds of night, the day gradually fades into the alcoves. Finding refuge behind the steamy windows, life slows down. It doesn’t matter. Raindrops, sleeping beauty, beautiful Ophelia. At the edge of our dreams, the journey can begin. Listen when it rains….
We would love to say thanks to the author of this write-up for this remarkable material
LISTEN WHEN IT RAINS
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