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