Every Saturday, Louison chronicles an object or an event from our daily lives.
“What can I do, I don’t know what to do.” Apparently, to this existentiallo-lazy questioning, many nonagenarians have said to themselves lately: “Here, what if I died?” Well yeah it’s true, comes an age when the opportunities to do something for the first time are not so frequent and frankly, I understand very well that between death and registering on TikTok, the choice is quickly made .
That’s it, that’s it, death is a conspiracy.
A particularly deceitful plot, since it can affect anyone at any time. Like even the Queen of England can break her royal highness pipe just before aperitif time, when she was doing very well at breakfast. Well she was probably not very well the morning of her death, but we didn’t know and we were able to taste our three bowls of cushy Chocapic. Same for William Klein or Jean-Luc Godard, before they died they were perfectly alive.
Conspiracy, I tell you.
A plot that begins very early in life, moreover. Your goldfish for example, he was doing really well in the morning when you left for school and as if by chance when you come back, in the evening, he decided to change his life, he chose not-life and reincarnation en bloc toilet bowl, without notice without even a word to warn you. Conspiracy. Same for your hamster, your gerbil, your chinchilla, your ferret, your guinea pig, your dwarf rabbit. I assure you, one day I decided to stop hanging out with rodents to devote myself fully to succulents. With a rather mixed result, but that’s another story.
The worst category of population
In short, death sucks.
When I was little, death disrupted television programs. Frankly, who dares to die during an episode of Princess Sarah? Bah Pierre Beregovoy. Who dares to put the gun on the left one last day of vacation? Well the Princess of Wales. (The one from the last century huh, Kate Middleton is fine, and if in doubt I’m going to wrap it in bubble wrap to make sure.) In short, death is a fucking scandal, but it’s nothing or no nothing, kind hair-of-butt-of-peanut-dwarf-nothing, next to the dead themselves.
So sorry, but we are still in the worst category of the population. Next door, people who telephone with the loudspeaker in public transport are worthy of being Knights Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor, or of being able to splash around every morning in a paddling pool full of otters (yes, each his idea of what can be the culmination of a life).
In short, the dead, whether old known or young unknown, are to humanity what the blue side of the erasers is hot on the heels: perfectly useless and frankly disappointing. The dead, under the pretext of no longer being alive, completely dissociate themselves from everyday life. Have you ever seen a dead person reply to a text message? Never. Come for dinner? Have an aperitif? A brunch? A snack? A cracker over the sink? No more. Even the Queen of England will sit on RSVPs now that her soul has returned the keys to her body’s Airbnb.
If at least those who are no longer there could play it low profile. But it’s quite the opposite: the more they are absent, the more they miss.
No knowing how to live, just knowing how to die.
Conspiracy, I tell you.
Roll on Monday.
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Long Live Monday: Death
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