I dare and say that life is imperfect.
I dare and say that life lacks of an ocean full of functions!
You can’t adjust the brightness of life.
You can’t crop out the ungraceful pieces of life.
You can’t rotate what seems inconvenient.
You can’t edit and undo any of your actions.
You can’t go back in time and fix the unfixable.
Santa’s factory only manufactures the materialistic and you can’t just order feelings or warmth, the BEST gifts possible.
And the silence keeps screaming louder. - SN

Rising from the Ashes

Her knees hammered to the ground, her nails rusted with rain smelling soil, the truth shimmering in the pit of her stomach, the words unsaid springing in the center of her bones, virulent ideas mazing in the crown of her head, and undisclosed desires ravaging her empty chest, she glanced at it. On the glass-coated surface, she saw herself. She couldn’t describe the image staring at her, but she could feel it. I can feel her. The day old mascara was running down her face drawing her sorrows, racing on the porcelain bumps of her cheeks, crawling on the curve of her lips. She could feel the tangled strings of her brain wrestling, tears burning her eyes, her ears bleeding his words. She was hemorrhaging his venom out of her body, out of her soul.


But one thing she didn’t know: the spine grasped it all, the spine remembered it all.
The spine, clustered at the center of our bodies, a nailed pillar carrying the symmetric axe of our souls.
The spine, a bone-structured reservoir of our memories.

The spine, castle of our every shiver, every emotion, every tingly feeling that electrifies our bodies.
The spine that reminisces the magic of our lives, but also the most haunting moments we wish we could erase or not.

She remembered it all, with every breath she took, she was breathing a fragrant rainbow colored with memories, pictures, laughs… Her soul was fed, her loneliness vanished…
She felt like a butterfly in her own queendom… A butterfly that flutters for a day and thinks that it’ll last forever…

Looking back at the mirror, she felt like a butterfly caged in a jar with a steel knife in her windpipe, her wings clipped, her colors coated with sewage. With gravel in her throat urging her eyes to cry, she smashed the mirror with her fist… She loved the pain, she was wired that way, it made her feel alive, it made her feel real. You may think she’s a masochist, but I think that it was the labor that would deliver her phoenix, her savior, her light…

SN

Un an déjà...

Cela va faire aujourd’hui un an.
Un an de ribambelles de questions qui restent sans réponses.
Un an de larmes, de frustration et d’incompréhension.
Un an de retours en arrière, pour essayer de revivre les choses, ensemble, une dernière fois.
Cela va faire aujourd’hui un an…
Un an que tu es parti.
Et pourtant tu es encore ici, puisque tout nous parle de toi…

« On ne meurt point, on change seulement
De forme en autre, et ce changer s'appelle
Mort, quand on prend une forme nouvelle […]. » disait Pierre de Ronsard.
La simple lecture de cette citation le 19 octobre dernier m’aurait paru plus qu’absurde, inassimilable voire même intolérable devant la tempête saccageante de tristesse, d’incompréhension et de colère qui embuait mes yeux.
Famille, amis, proches, frôlant furtivement du regard l’année écoulée, cette citation ne pourrait être plus vraie.


Après ta disparition, tu n’as cessé de traverser nos rêves nous laissant des signes, des mots et de la musique.
Au réveillon du jour de l’An, tu as fait le compte à rebours avec nous pour nous dire que tu ne restais pas en 2010, mais que tu cheminais avec nous aussi vers les portes de 2011.
En cours, malgré ton absence, tes blagues ont toujours raisonné entre nos bureaux et tes petites anecdotes animaient nos journées.
Les jours du bac, tu as surement ri de nos angoisses et de nos retards industriels dans nos révisions avec ton rire moqueur légendaire, mais le jour des résultats tu n’as pas hésité de fêter avec nous notre réussite.
Le jour de la remise des diplômes, tu étais sur tous les cœurs couronnant les quinze années, chargées d’aventures et de moments inoubliables, passées à l’école.
Et puis, il y avait cette soirée de juin où on a tous chanté en chœur avec l’Algérino et Faudel au concert de Roads For Life, l’association érigée en ton honneur qui lutte et qui luttera toujours pour qu’aucune famille, qu’aucun ami, ne vive la peine inconsolable de perdre un être cher dans un accident de la route.
Cet été, tu étais de toutes les soirées, de tous les voyages, de toutes nos sorties, de toutes nos aventures et de tous nos fous rires.
Tout cela, sans compter les longues soirées où l’on t’a parlé, chacun tout seul enfoui dans son lit dans le noir, pour te demander conseil les nombreuses fois où la vie avait pris des tournants difficiles.
Aujourd’hui, à l’aube de notre parcours universitaire, tu es avec nous. Que l’on soit toujours au Liban ou à l’étranger, tu guides nos pas qui découvrent un monde nouveau tout en nous murmurant de ne pas prendre les choses trop au sérieux et de garder en nous une note d’humour Talalienne dans tout ce que l’on entreprend.
Et nous on te dit que tu resteras, toujours, au creux de nous, dans nos vies, dans tout ce que l’on fait, même à l’autre bout de l’univers, parce que c’est notre histoire à nous. Une histoire éternelle, intouchable, qui brave les frontières du temps et de l’espace, une histoire qui nous lie à jamais à toi.

Talal est un oiseau immortel qui n’est pas né pour vivre derrière les barreaux d’une vie fastidieuse et ordinaire.
Talal est un oiseau immortel qui est né pour planer au dessus des nuages, traverser les continents, découvrir les océans et caresser les étoiles.
Talal est un oiseau immortel qui n’est pas né pour mourir.

Cela va faire aujourd’hui un an que tu es parti, pourtant tu resteras toujours ici.

Je t’aime.

SN

Only because it's still so raw and real.

You know when you are riding a fast car, fast enough so you can fly away? When your hair is whipping your face, sticking to your lip gloss and combing your lashes? When your ears are bleeding happiness under the thunder of a haunting melody? When you feel the car wheels roaring with excitement?
Well, if I had to pick a memory to relive over and over again, that is the one I’d chose.

If I had to pick a memory… If memory had to pick me…

They say consciousness is the ultimate movement of the universe itself, but what is consciousness without the power to remember, to journey splinters of the past into the present? And how to immerse ourselves in the womb of reality that consciousness carries without strolling down memory lane where resides our extensive vocabulary and knowledge of language; the tremendous and unique variety of facts we have amassed; all the skills we have learned, from walking and talking to musical and athletic performance; many of the emotions we feel; and the continuous sensations, feelings, and understandings of the world?

Consciousness is saying I see. I taste. I listen. I touch. I feel. I am.
Memory is saying I was, maybe still am or not.
Memory allows comparing the past to the present, the bitterness of the past to the sweetness of the present or the other way round.
But memory, unleashed, can be like sleeping with the enemy.

Memory, this double edged weapon that invades the mind that can lead to live in the futile bubbles of fantasy.
Haven’t we all been the victims of an addiction to a certain memory, reliving it over and over again building cities out of our emotions and towers of lies crumbled over empires of illusions?
Haven’t we all once experienced the sudden return of an unwanted infectious memory buried deep into our soul that shook demons out of us?

The reminders still take me… To the infernos of it all.
But when the fractures of the past arouse in the present, it's not because they want something from you it's because you want something from them.
So,
Why does my heart go on stuttering?
Why do these eyes of mine cry?
Why do these ears of mine go on bleeding?
Why does this mind of mine go on spiraling?
Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer?
Why am I wired this way?
Doesn't the universe know it's all leading to the end of my world?
The universe and I once were one.
The universe and I split.



SN

Integrity

Being true to ourselves, such a challenge when we are enmeshed in a world where we are told to be uniform, where uniqueness is condemned and feelings are oppressed.
Being true to ourselves, not crumbling to meet the standards set by others, being grateful for the perfection and beauty of our own individuality.
Being true to ourselves with our scars opened, our sense unwrapped and our mind emancipated.
Being true to ourselves, burying hypocrisy and setting the truth in an arena of lies.
Being true to ourselves, stopping our comparisons with others and embracing our own life circumstances, personalities, bodies, gifts, and challenges.
Being true to ourselves, being individuals of integrity, the key to inner peace, to happiness.

However, very often, when we stand our ground, we stand alone.
llusions fall one after another like the skin of a fruit where the fruit is the bitter reality of who we are and who we are capable of becoming.
A Native American story goes like this:
One evening an old chief told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.
“One is evil: It is anger, envy, jealousy, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
“The other is good: It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, faith and integrity.”
The young grandson thought about this for a minute or two and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”
The old chief replied simply: “The one you feed!”

In order to chose between the good and the bad, to accept ourselves completely we need courage.
Courage to accept that we may not always win, and to keep on battling relentlessly.
Courage to confront the dark parts of ourselves, and to work to banish them.
Courage to use pain as fuel to wrestle our demons and comfort our angels.
Courage to accept our own powers as a reminder of our unique strength.
Courage to learn how to let fear take over, to let it do its thing but only for a short while.

How to find courage?
Let the spiritual gloss in you glow through self knowledge and meditation.
Be as supple as a chunk of clay, maybe it’s time to change.
Stop toying around and get off your emotional rollercoaster.
Let go of your narcoleptic tendencies and nourish instead your creative side.
Listen carefully to the psalm of your heart and breathe tomorrow into your lungs.
Courage will come to you like a bird that comes to the hand that does not grasp. Watch it blossom in you and open the eyes of your mind.
Now it’s you and courage against the world, next time when you’re home alone standing on your bed, hold your head high, you will fly.

SN

Silenci

When it happened, a shopping bag got stuck in midswing carried by a frozen shopper and birds in the sky just stayed where they were.
When it happened, the lifeguard was off duty and some souls got lost at sea.
When it happened, the sky painter was caught framing the last piece of a sky that always hated the frame.
When it happened, the striking sunlight noticed the unnoticed.
When it happened, she was combing away all the love you no longer wanted, braiding her sorrow spiraled by a stairway of memories.
When it happened the world in a roar stood still in front of the mirror and remembered that he couldn’t see himself and that his role was limited to be the one who looks in the mirror.
It happened: Silence|ˈsīləns|, the complete absence of sound.

It wasn’t the silence where the flora and fauna grow.
It wasn’t the silence where the sun, moon and stars move.
It wasn’t the silence where the squirrel’s heart beats.
It wasn’t the silence on which music lays.
It wasn’t the silence where great souls suffer.

What exactly was that silence?
It felt so shrill to my ears, so perfect, so accurate. It wasn’t a religious silence, or the gap between words, nor the crack between the music notes but something that sounded more like when you find yourself close to reality.
It was the silence mother of truth wore.

It murmured:
You can keep on wishing for big things. Things that are ambitious, out of reach so you won’t have to worry to accomplish them one day.
You can keep on loving the pain because it makes you feel real and so good when it stops.
You can keep on holding guns so softly like you were holding a white dove.
You can keep that vest with an "S" on your chest and pretend you can fly from the highest swing.
But you can’t pretend that I am not here, in the background minding your every step, following your every move, watching you.
You should learn to get in touch with me, the silence within yourself.

I answered:
I can't, and I can't decide, my wrong from right, my day from night, my dark from light, so how get in touch with muteness.

It whispered:
Always remember that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure, that without silence words lose their meaning. Don’t you turn your back on silence.
Silence is so accurate.
Silence is sometimes the severest criticism.
Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn.
Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.
Silence is the ultimate weapon of power.
Silence, the essence of life, of contemplation and meditation.
Slowly, gently, night will unfurl its splendor.
Grasp it, sense it
Slowly, gently, night will unfurl its splendor.
Grasp it, sense it.
Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light:
Listen to the music of the night in you.

SN

Bury Hypocrisy

On board of a train that rid the contour of my skin, we visited the museum of my mind where lies are thirty stories high.
See, I wanted to learn how to give, I learned how to eat it all,
I wanted to learn forgiveness, I learned revenge,
I wanted to learn love , I learned hate,
I wanted to defy the furious waves, instead I drowned,
I wanted to conquer the Everest instead, I conquered artifices and outright fakery,
On board of a train that rid the contour of my skin, we saw my soul folded in a bottle abandoned at sea.

On board of a plane that shove my vessels, we visited the cathedrals of my heart where the walls were scratched and the ground was cracked.
A choir was singing every single thing you ever did that bothered me, which is every single thing I miss today.
The sky painter had his head hammered on the ground tired of painting relentlessly a sky that kept on turning grey crackled by an endless thunder of unexplained anger.
The stained glass’s colors were fading after the dragon ate the sun, and felt humid at the touch of my hands.
The corridors of my heart felt like the corridors of a prison where the condemned awaits his sentence.
On board of a plane that shove my vessels, we saw my soul riding a bold zebra where all is black and white, all is extreme, everything imbalanced, chaotic.

See, a poacher stained my soul with the blooded feathers of my dove longtime gone and since my life is colorless.
See, a poacher stained my soul and I felt like I had nothing more to lose since he killed my dove, my inner peace.
See, I have nothing more to lose and nothing is more dangerous then someone who has nothing to lose.

Wait, let me cut the crap.
I can’t lose you.
I can’t lose our special bond.
I can’t, I just can’t.
Yes I still have something to lose and I’d kill even the air that will dare to come between us.
The museum of my mind will find his genuineness, the cathedrals of my heart their harmony, with less hypocrisy and more earthshaking truth facing attitude.

Dedicated.

SN

Game Over

The sun's red lightning electrified me, mistrals were galloping madly through my darkest thoughts propelling me to the cliffs of my soul.
I raised my hands to the sky giving my tears to grief between the stars and cold-blooded clouds.
I was turning into fire, my body warmed up, my teeth clenched, my hair crackled under the long flames that danced all through my body, my wings melted as well, and my feathers got lost in the sand of time. Acute pain suddenly sprouted inside my chest opening it, propelling cupid’s arrow to infinity.
I felt him, his dark presence, he was here between this fiery circus with his black wings ready to fly me to the meadows of heaven, when I shouted: “The day I die, please take care of my life”. He let me go for a while and I wrote.

The day I die, please take care of my life.
Don’t hurt her*, without her I couldn’t have written.
Tell her that without her the cathedrals in my heart wouldn’t have rung with love.
The day I die, please take care of my life,
Tell her how much I am going to miss her drowned in this coat of ground,
Tell her I forgive her all; the misadventures, the bad days and the heartaches.
The day I die please take care of my life,
Tell her how much I’ll miss seeing her float on a bed of roses waiting for dawn,
Tell her I am sorry for the days I didn’t appreciated her fully,
The day I die please take care of my life,
Tell her I regret nor will I forget a thing,
Tell her that tears rolled down my face when I watched her release herself from my body on a track of rock music full of nostalgia and melancholia.
The day I die, please take care of my life.
The day I die, I have only thought of it once, while writing this note.


* My life is a "she"

SN

Tous les matins du monde ...

Paris, kingdom of the dead, city of angels.

Seated among climbing roses, whispering a brave refrain, words were colliding softly around me melting like snowflakes in the abyss of silence.
I was waiting for the pale moon and its silver knives to trim the branches of the stars, waiting for the pale moon and its silver knives to sculpt your face into the stars, when the subtle smoke of his cigarette caressed my senses. It was the man laying on a bench next to me. He glanced at me, and with a smile where I later found all the laws of the universe combined, asked me: What is a human being to you?

A human being can’t fly, but chases birds.
A human being can’t breathe underwater, but fishes.
A human being believes he’s the strongest creature on earth, and gives himself the right to rule life and death.
A human being is the worst of all the animals, selfish, wilder then the felines in cages.
A human being finds pleasure in killing believing he’s superior to all, respecting nothing and no one.
A human being makes fun of the world instead of searching for a way to use a greater percentage of his mental capacities.
A human being uses the verb “can” as a verb of power and domination, forgetting that “can” can be : “because I can fail”.
A human being is a dressed animal blindly guided by his instincts; he’s the devil wearing Prada.

Between two puffs of his cigarette , he asked me: What are you?

I am a human being, with my goods and my bads.
I struggle with life and death not wanting to live and let die.
I can be the worst of all the animals, selfish, wilder then the felines in cages.
I often trade the verb “can” for “can’t” and get rolled in the storm of fakeness and appearances instead of focusing on my inside.
I am the crazy girl that has always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long or sobbed for a time in utter laziness, wild, undisciplined to a certain extent.
But sir, I am a seeker of truth.
I came to win my battles, drowning sadness and anxiety, glorifying smiles and honoring my failures.
I came to conquer hearts, but not any hearts, hearts of steel stained with battle-blood.
I came to rise to the stars, but first to rise up my soul till it glows iridescently.
I came to fly, to release the caged bird in me, to grasp its wings travelling to eternity.
I came to live, and I came to die saying that I have lived.


He smiled and asked me to join him on his bench.
We sat watching the waveless sea screaming to us that the essence of intelligence is skill in extracting meaning from everyday experience since “Tous les matins du monde sont sans retour.”

SN

Me too

The velvet waves of a spicy wind were floating a procession of stem-less roses in the copper sky leaving the lazy trees unmoved.
The sun was lying on the crystal horizon careful enough not to melt it, and the crescent moon was unveiling her face to the twinkling stars.
Strands of grass rose into arks of emerald upon lost lands while the arsenic river was rocking to sleep the rainbow trouts.
Lightly and tremulously they were singing wiping their feathers with green leaves. Who sang first? It remains unknown.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the embracing freedom of nature.

The broken angel was sewing back her wings shattered by her addiction to his lies, the useless furbelows of his words, and the shimmers of his eyes.
The fallen fairy was trying to reach back her flower by braiding her hair out of the dungeon where she was imprisoned.
Tinkerbell was striving to find her way back to Neverland, land of eternal youth, singing her soul and swallowing her tears.
It wasn’t flesh nor blood: It was the reality behind the stories we tell our children.

Glancing through my window, I saw it all.
I saw the freedom of nature, and the reality behind the stories I was told.
I saw a blooming nature, and the death of fiction.
I saw what wasn’t flesh nor blood and looked back to what was: The cage. A cage made of ribs, flesh and blood vessels through which my electrical maze of ideas was wired. An empty cage.
I looked back again at what wasn’t flesh nor blood: The bird. My bird, dressed in its emerald coat with a raging soul and rusty nails. This time, it stood still and motionless, watching me.
Watching my light footfall, whispering to me: The earth loves you tonight.

SN

I know why the caged bird sings - Part II

Seaweeds were shivering around my sanded ankles, rampant waves were glazing my porcelain hips, the warm wind was slashing my fiery mane and I stood still…

I stood still, motionless, breathless watching its rusty nails sink in my skin. It came to me, slicing the sky’s silvered lining, raping the stars and braving the nascent storm. An emerald coat shone its wings, its eyes were colored by the deepest blue and its raging soul by blinding reds. It soared like a hawk and dived like an eagle, it came from nowhere but was heading everywhere.

I stood still, frozen, gasping, while it laid its head on my palm because in order to see it was necessary to become part of the silence. I tried caressing its glistening black feathers but with a look he begged me not to because the bird of paradise alights only upon the hand that does not grasp.

Suddenly I remembered.

I remembered the days when I was young and so were you and we used to light walls with our wild laughs and our faces covered with chocolate dust.
I remembered the deceptions, and the lessons learnt through the curves of this so called life where love = evol = evil = live.
I remember those nights I was alone, sewing myself back up, wiping my fears because life isn’t what I thought it was.
I remember the full moon setting in the sky full of lies as I felt shrugged an misplaced.
I remember the way the buildings looked lit by the light why I sat on my bed my head back down.
I remembered my falls and my rises, my won and sometimes lost battles.
I remembered trying to draw wings, to untie my feet, to free myself from danger but unfortunately to no avail.
I remember the sour feeling of powerlessness, unable to save a life, he, the one star today in my heart that keeps on burning so brightly no matter what.
And so I remembered all of this but it belongs to time's past. And so I stood still.

It stood still, its head laying on my palm, its golden beak on my fingers. Then, lifted its wings gently, brushed my cheeks and kissed my lips sliding back into my body, its cage.
My body was its cage, that deprived it from its wanderlust, its freedom.

The caged bird sings of memory, of “I remember”.

SN

YOUTH

YOUTH.

Some see it as an unending highschool diary, others see it as a sign of immaturity, but I call it being alive.

Youth, an unquenchable fountain that arises in each one of us. Fountain of impetuous imagination, unyielding emotions, ice cold courage, lingering desires and cravings for adventure.

Youth, a state of mind, a state of will, that goes beyond wrinkles, botox injections and face-lifts. Youth softens the wrinkled hearts and widens minds through achievements, passions, hunger for life and thirst for triumph and success.

Youth, an eternal energy that is only measured by faith, by your everyday morning smile to the sun, and the number of times you clutch the knob of your door and open on up to the world running forward towards a new day since each day dawns but once.

Youth is laughing out loud, running faster then the wind.
Youth is climbing over the walls edified by a selfish and hedonist society, breaking the bricks that held them, spreading them back on the floor, building reality out of dreams.
Youth is speaking half a language and half god, facing an unalterable reality and undefiabletruths and facts.
Youth is laughing nights away stabbing cynicism between the eyes and crushing the spines of timidity and self-pity.
Youth is rocking the fuck out of the world disturbing peace, running with mud stained clothes, screaming freedom.
Youth is being able to say: "I have already emptied myself. I kissed regret goodbye, took the hands of another backwards angel, and rode backwards into the rain". Anis Mojgani.
Youth is saying : “I’m fifty, already, but I feel younger than a rotten spoiled teenager, I’m fifty and forever young.”

Youth of today, Youth of tomorrow:
Dreams are feasible,
The life injected in your souls awaits you, begs you to discover its inner virtues and forget for a while its outer shell.
Design your prayers, your mottos, faith is your best ally.
Fall only to rise up again, higher.

The caged bird still sings, sings hidden behind the bars of my half-wrinkled heart. The caged bird sometimes sings of youth.

SN

I know why the caged bird sings -1-

I know why the caged bird sings.

All I do is vain.
All I do is worthless.
All I do is futile.
All I do exists not if I cannot fly.

Every once and a while I dream of Maya Angelou’s free bird that leaps on the back of the win and that floats downstream till the current ends.
So I try.
I try drawing wings
I try untying my feet
I try opening my throat to sing
I try freeing myself from danger
Unfortunately to no avail.

Therefore I think to myself:
Why is it so complicated to free myself from a cage built with bars of steeled rage?
It feels like I am lost in the middle of a self-made maze and that my mind, and my mind only, holds its key.
How to exorcise this beast in me that feasts on banquets made of my ideas, dreams and aspirations?
Maybe I should slash my dreams in pieces, throw them off to the sea, then jump off the cliff, catch them pieces, and mend them back together shaping them into a sword that would grasp light and destroy darkness.

Somewhere over the rainbow resides my kingdom. A “manowarish” kingdom built with thunder, fire and steel where Valkyries fly and Sleipnir rises from darkness.
Somewhere over the rainbow I’ll meet me. Once that happens, me myself and I will live in a castle walled with emeralds and guarded by lionesses.
Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, I’ll wear wings.

Somewhere, under the rainbow, today I breathe.
I breathe in a world where the wild at heart are kept in cages.
I breathe in a world where the good die young.
I breathe in a world of ungratefulness and quenchless desire of wealth.

I wish in a world where
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing”.
I wish in a mad world.
I wish in a world set on MUTE.

SN

After all, you're my wonderwall...

On dit que le remède pour l’ennui est la curiosité. Mais il n’y a pas de remède pour la curiosité. Je suis donc curieuse, au point de gouter aux fleurs sans avoir peur, de plonger dans la gueule du loup la tête d'abord, de toucher le feu, et surtout au point d’oser m’écrire pour me découvrir.
Je n’écris pas souvent des choses très gaies, des choses très « roses » non pas parce que « les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux » Musset, mais tout simplement parce que les mots tristes sont d’une autre beauté. Une histoire qu'elle soit triste ou plutôt joyeuse est preuve que l’auteur est vivant. Cependant, l’histoire morose murmure au lecteur vers la fin de sa lecture que le destin de l’auteur n’est pas si macabre et que la vie ne va pas tarder à sourire à ce dernier et c’est ca qui me remue le plus dans mes lectures.

J’écris ce soir pour parler du « monopole » de la souffrance. L’on a souvent tendance à croire (y compris moi), que l’on porte le fardeau le plus lourd du monde, on se fait des scenarios ou l’on s’imagine le ciel nous tomber sur la tête, en plein ego-trip ou l'on se sent le nombril du monde, et on s’oublie et on se noie dans un tourbillon de souffrance qui nous pénètre et nous qui étouffe à petit feu, d’ou ma prière :
Pardon pour les jours où j'me plains
Les jours où je ne vois que moi, mon nez et pas plus loin
Pardon pour toutes ces fois où j'ai grossi mes problèmes
Pour toutes ces fois où j'ai fais tourner le monde sur moi même
Ferme tes yeux juste une seconde
Vois la misère du monde
Et ta place dans tous ça
Prenons conscience de la chance qu'on a
Et tu verras peut être que la vie est belle.
Soprano

Je ne me fais pas l’avocate de la souffrance, je ne la souhaite pas à mes pires ennemis ! Je ne fais pas non plus ma Rihanna avec « S&M » en prônant le sadisme et le masochisme et ne soutient pas la mode de la douleur stylée que véhicule les medias aujourd’hui.
Je me fais avocate de la rage de vivre puisque nous ne pouvons nier que la douleur est plus qu’un fardeau mais une partie de nous que l’on doit choisir d’accepter pour aller plus haut.

Nous avons peur de nous mêmes, de qui nous étions, qui nous sommes et qui nous serons. Plus encore, nous avons peur de nos sentiments. Prenons pour exemple l’amour ! Ce n’est pas aussi Disney qu’on le croit ! Oui, arrêtons de se mentir l’amour est souffrance. On nous a toujours fait croire que la douleur est quelque chose de dangereux… Mais comment vivre l’amour si l’on a peur de nos propres sentiments ? De notre propre mécanisme de fonctionnement qui malheureusement est majoritairement régit par la douleur ? L’on tend souvent à cacher notre douleur, à la couvrir de linceuls, à mener des doubles vies alors que lorsque l’on ressent du bonheur ou de la colère on n’hésite pas à exhiber ces sentiments haut et fort ! La douleur a l’effet d’un tazeur qui nous électrocute et nous propulse vers ce que l’on redoute le plus qui est la remise en question de nos actions, de nos relations, de nos aspirations, et même de notre propre existence. La douleur doit être acceptée et non subie, la douleur doit carburer nos vies, dynamiser nos esprits. Cacher sa souffrance c’est se faire écraser par une société euphorique, plastique, glacée, et surtout éphémère.
« Pain”: Ca fait quatre lettres, beaucoup trop peu pour un mot si doux. La douleur pleure en silence. Ses larmes coulent dans nos veines, inondent nos journées, illuminent nos vies, les pimentent d’émotions et de sentiments uniques que seules elles peuvent nous procurer. La douleur cherche notre reconnaissance. La douleur cherche sa place au rang des sentiments. La douleur en a marre des coups de poing du bonheur et des cloche-pieds du rire. La douleur veut briller un peu plus, parce que quelqu’un lui a dit que sans elle la vie perdra son effet montagne russe qui nous fait jongler entre plaisir et douleur, entre paix et colère, entre joie et tristesse.

Je veux juste apprendre ma douleur et ne plus en faire des mines anti-moi et des « bombes à NON ».
Je veux juste apprendre la douleur.
Je veux juste l’apprendre pour être cette tiède lumière orangée qui illumine les cœurs.
Je veux trop de choses… Je veux vivre… Vivre l’immensité.

SN